When the Doors Closed

An elevator ride in Maui, and the moment everything shifted

I was waiting by the elevator to return to our third-floor condo while on vacation in Maui. I often take the stairs, but I had just walked down to dispose of the garbage, so I opted for the easy ride back up.

An elderly gentleman, maybe ten years older than me, came up beside me, and we fell into an easy conversation about the weather. In January, this part of Maui is cool in the morning, warm in the afternoon, and then it cools off again in the early evening. It’s perfect. I mentioned how much I love it here, especially those cool evenings, and he smiled like he knew exactly what I meant.

January 2026 Sunset in Kihei, Maui

“That’s why we started coming here back in 1987,” he said.

I told him we’d been coming for several years too, and that we feel the pull of this part of the island, and this condo.

“How long do you stay when you come?” I asked.

“We used to come for a couple of months,” he said. Then he paused. “But now only for a couple of weeks.”

He added that he’d had a heart attack on one visit and ended up in the hospital, staying a couple of extra weeks. He even gave me the exact date, one I immediately forgot.

The elevator arrived. We stepped in together, and as the doors slid shut, he added, almost matter-of-factly, “I only stay for a couple of weeks now. My wife is in a care center.”

My heart ached.

What do you say to that?

I was stunned, not only by the news, but by how calmly he said it, as if he’d had to practice saying it. The ride up was short, too short to find the right words, too short to end a conversation that suddenly felt heavy and unfinished. When we reached my floor, I stood in the open doorway, wanting to offer something that didn’t feel flimsy, wanting him to feel, if only for a moment, that someone had truly heard him.

All I could manage was, “I’m so sorry. But I’m glad you’re able to come back, even for a short time.”

He nodded. Then the door closed.

I stood there in the quiet of the open-air walkway, and it felt like being smacked in the face with my own mortality. Someday that will happen. One of us, or both of us, won’t be able to get this brief respite from winter. We won’t be the ones taking that morning walk before breakfast, heading out for the day, then pulling on a light jacket to watch the sunset from our lanai. We won’t be here at all.

After that, I hoped I’d run into him again. I wanted to know more, not out of nosiness, but because his one sentence had opened a door in my mind I couldn’t shut. I wondered about him and his wife. What brought them here to this condo the first time? What kind of Maui vacation did they have together?

Did she sit beside him and watch the waves? Did they walk on the beach in the evenings? Or was she a wife who stayed tucked away in the condo with a book? Did they frequent the farmer’s market across the street, choosing the perfect papaya for breakfast, or stop by the bake shop just steps away for a malasada or one of the other pastries? Did they start their visits years ago as tourists, going on whale watches, visiting the cats on Lanai, driving the Road to Hana? And as the years went by, did they stop filling their days and simply spend quiet time at the condo, content with “being” instead of doing?

He was carrying a beach chair and a towel when we met. I wondered if that was something he and his wife had done every year. I could picture them sitting side by side, simply enjoying the weather. He mentioned that family sometimes visited, and I imagined a wider circle too, everyone down on the sand together, watching the grandkids play in the surf.

I kept looking for him after that, but I never saw him again.

A few days later, I mentioned the conversation to Maryann, the office manager. She knew exactly who I was talking about. She told me his wife had not been well for the last several years when she visited and often relied on a walker to get around. She also said he had lost his son to brain cancer this past November. His son had been ill for several years, she explained, but it had suddenly gotten worse. Maryann did not remember the heart attack and thought it probably happened before she started working there.

It’s amazing what a short conversation with a stranger can do. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to hear his story.

But what I brought back with me was my own. His words followed me down the open-air walkway, and I could feel my gratitude and my grief sharing the same small space inside me. I kept thinking about how easily life shifts, how one sentence can open a door you didn’t know was there, and how, whether I’m ready or not, time keeps moving. And I also knew what to do with that feeling: to notice the air, the light, and to just be. To enjoy the now while I can.