Hannah. A slender, tall African woman. Always friendly, helpful. Came into my apartment yesterday and began enthusing about my books. Bemoaning the books she’d left behind. Said she spent her paycheck on books. “I never thought I’d see someone that loved books as much as I do.”

When she told me she spoke French, I asked what country she was from. Nigeria. She came here for college, her father paying. He died just after she finished her second year. Put stop to college. Her marriage then was young. She stayed here. Fifteen years ago.

She looked at my books, pulling out favorites like Chaucer. “Oh, this one is funny. I think Shakespeare got some ideas from him.” A shame a woman of her intellect had to settle.

Then, “Oh, you have the Torah.”

“Well. I’m a Jew.”

She stopped for a second, “So am I.” Hannah keeps a kosher house and has raised her children as Jews. Her parents converted before she was born.

We were both amazed. Book lovers and Jews. That’s a strong connection. We agreed to do something around Hannukah.

In the odd way of senior care, later that evening she helped me get dressed for bed. Which involved me getting briefly naked. No problem: caregivers role.

Thus endeth Monday.