I’ve visited the Mexican fast food joint around the corner from my office like clockwork for the last three years. Every week, I walk over to pick up my usual order of carne asada fries: everything on it with three sides of tomatillo salsa. I rarely stray from that, so when they see me walk in, the cashier confirms if I’ll have the number 19 or 22 and the chef knows to get the fryer ready.  

We always exchange pleasantries but only learned each other’s names one windy October afternoon. Monica, Belen, Jesus. 

It wasn’t a life-changing conversation. We didn’t exchange stories or make plans to meet up. We just put names to familiar faces, turning a weekly routine into something a little more personal. And somehow, that was enough to make a difficult week feel a little lighter. 

When life gets hectic, it’s easy to underestimate how much these small connections matter. We share hallways, wait in lines, visit the same shops and pass the same people on our way through the day.  

Sometimes we learn their names.  

Sometimes we don’t.  

But those brief encounters can become the beginnings of something meaningful: a small sense of belonging and a reminder that we’re part of something beyond ourselves. 

That idea runs through this month’s issue. Our reporter Karen Bartunek introduces us to poets who have found community by putting their most vulnerable experiences into words, and contributor Ron Smith discusses how his work installing home lockboxes for seniors reveals a need that goes beyond safety. His story is a reminder that checking on a neighbor or taking time to listen can matter more than we realize. 

Their stories look different, but they share a simple truth: Connection happens when we make room for one another. It can grow through a performance, a lesson, a song or a conversation with someone we’ve seen dozens of times but never really met. 

I’d known Belen and Jesus for more than three years before we introduced ourselves. I’ll probably keep ordering the same carne asada fries, and I’m sure they’ll keep greeting me with the same quiet “hello” and chin nod.  

This story first appeared in the November issue of InMaricopa.