Letter No. 11: The Button

The fifth-floor button was already glowing when someone pressed it again.

I had parked in the basement lot of an apartment building and entered the elevator alone. I pressed the button marked “5,” and the orange glow inside the clear plastic announced that floor was now a future destination. The doors closed, and the elevator started upward.

When it stopped on the first floor, two people stepped inside. One pressed the button for the third floor. The other pressed the button for the fifth. I watched his finger land on the same button I had pressed only moments before. Nothing about the light changed, but the small gesture caught my attention.

Why did you push that button?

The doors closed, and the elevator resumed its climb. When we reached the third floor, the passenger who had selected it said goodbye to the other before stepping out. The doors closed again, and the two of us continued upward in the small, familiar silence of an elevator.

During those final two floors, I found myself considering the possibilities. Maybe it was habit; perhaps his hand reached for the number before his eyes registered the orange light. Maybe he saw the light but wanted the reassurance of making the request himself. Or perhaps it wasn’t about trust at all. Maybe pressing the button gave him the small satisfaction of having some part in what happened next.

The fifth floor had been selected before he entered. He had stepped into an elevator already prepared to carry him where he wanted to go, but his hand had still reached out.

The desire to have a hand in what happens next felt familiar. There is comfort in doing. It gives us a role—something we can point to and say, however quietly, I had a part in this.

For the rest of the ride, however, there was nothing left to do. We stood beside one another while the elevator carried us toward the same floor. Perhaps we are formed not only by what we begin, but by what we learn to receive.

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. The doors opened, and we both stepped out.

Behind us, the orange glow went dark.

Until next Sunday…

George

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