I leave bed every morning at 5:00AM, rising in darkness and quiet. It will be awhile before my family wakes. I write, I sip coffee, I soak in the hum of household appliances.

It was a day of reasonably heavy snowfall. I donned my coat and boots at 6:10AM or so, opened the front door, stepped out onto a slushy snow-covered porch and started shoveling. It was still snowing, but work starts for me early and this is the only time I have to do that work. I clear my sidewalk, the sidewalk of the vacant houses on either side of my property, and the neighbors adjacent to those. They will take their turn clearing the vacant houses’ sidewalks another day. My 10 year-old son hears me shoveling from his bed. He wakes, puts his winter gear on, and comes out to help. I have not asked him to do this – he chose to. My heart swells. He clears what already reaccumulated on the porch. He helps me with the front of the driveway. I look at the sidewalks, already covered in fresh snow. I swear I shoveled it.

We live in one of Buffalo’s countless elder wood-frame houses, which has stood for over a century ten feet from its neighbor. A driveway spans the space in between. The garage is at the back of the property, on the property line, which is not something the building codes allow anymore. My son and I move to the back of the driveway, clearing that. I hear a snowblower. It’s [Redacted], who works at [Redacted Pizza Shop]. He was snow-blowing the business’s sidewalk and came up the sidewalk to our home, [redacted single digit number] of doors down. I yell “Thank you!” which embarrasses my son. My son and I finish the back. It’s a good workout, but maybe an exercise in futility: the snow continues to fall.

We go inside and get ready for the day. I am standing at my kitchen sink, at the back of the house, when I hear a snowblower. It’s really close. My husband is inside. And then I peek through the window and there’s [Redacted], who was doing a second pass and decided to come down the driveway to my back door. He clears the space by the steps. I am floored by the kindness. I was not expecting that. In that moment, I felt very cared for.

We’re not strangers to [Redacted], but we are also not close. We are neighbors. We say hi. I gave [Redacted Pizza Shop] a holiday card, as they are a neighbor. That’s the relationship.

“City of Good Neighbors” continues to be my favorite self-fulfilling prophesy. It creates this ambience of kindness that we imperfectly fulfill, but often show up to nonetheless. I cannot speculate on my neighbor’s motives – though kindness lines up with my other experiences of him.

I can tell you this though – generosity can be self-reinforcing. It feels good to have a positive influence on the world. When you do something for someone else, you are exercising power. You have impact. I would argue that in a time where economic and political forces are trying to make us feel powerless in order to secure our obedience, partaking in acts of kindness are a way to assert our humanity. As human beings, we need to know our efficacy.

And then, having been the recent recipient of such generosity, I walk away from the experience feeling claimed, with this sense that I do, in fact, belong here.

We make this city together. I do love being here. May we do our best to claim each other, and to color our interactions with kindness.