There is a man I occasionally see in the elevator of my office building who looks exactly like my father. The first time I saw him I instinctively covered my mouth to conceal what was almost an audible gasp. Though I’ve gotten more used to seeing him, it’s still a tiny shock each time. I have a bizarre urge to speak to him, as if it would open up some secret channel to the dead. “Why are we in these elevators?” I’d like to ask him. “Do you think we’re squandering our time?” But of course, we continue holding our cups of coffee as strangers and disappear onto different floors.
