"Poor mister Martin," she would always say as she watched the middle-aged man walk to his mailbox then back into his house.

"Why do you say that?" I would always ask, looking at her curiously.

"Because he's poor," she would always answer.

"How?" I would always reply with my childish curiosity.

"In many ways," she would always sigh. "I should offer to help him some day," she would always say thoughtfully, but she never would.

•••••

"Poor miss Abbie," he would always say, looking at the elderly, bitter woman shout at her newspaper boy.

"Why do you say that?" I would always ask, looking at him curiously.

"Because she's poor and bitter," he would always answer.

"How?" I would always reply with my childish curiosity.

"In many ways," he would always sigh. "I'm going to go resolve that," he would always say, and he always did.

•••••

"Nice mister Richard," she would always say, smiling at the kind elderly man as made his grandson a wooden toy car.

"Why do you say that?" I would always ask, looking at her curiously.

"Because he's nice and sweet," she would always answer.

"How?" I would always reply with my childish curiosity.

"In many ways," she would always sigh, smiling at him. "I hope you grow to be like nice mister Richard."

And I did.