Angélique

    The old guy was tired, probably just needed a place to sit down--a park bench, a low wall, a step, anywhere cool, steady, and safe. But he was walking slowly, so slowly, that I found myself watching him with suspicion, suspicion more than care or, even, curiosity.

    I didn't know him--I don't always remember faces, but there was nothing familiar about this guy, an old man in sagging jeans, no belt, his thumbs threaded in the loops of his pants and a yellow T-shirt that was too bright, too wrinkled, and stretched too thin over his narrow body.

    He made me nervous, and I felt sorry for him at the same time. I didn't think he could see me on my front porch, but I stopped reading when I first saw him, and sat very still. He would probably just walk by.

    No.

    He slowed at my step up from the public sidewalk and appeared to have an uncommon interest in my begonias on either side of the step. I kept an eye on him and assumed that if I was very still, he'd keep going, continue his halting stumble down the street.

    No.

    He's stopped, and now he's on his knees, well, one knee, peering into my flower bed, as I sort through my options, what to do if he starts picking them or, worse, looks up, sees me, and approaches.

    Call 911?

    Well, probably not, that would be ridiculous--Officer, somebody is picking my begonias.

    Yikes, now he's on both knees, with his nose literally touching my prized Begonia Angélique...well, it does smell good, but.... I move carefully, my chair scrapes, he looks up, sees me, obviously sees me, nods, then holds his hand up to get my attention. Oh, no, he's going to ask for something...money...food.

    I can't pretend I'm not there in full view, can't pretend I haven't seen him, so I put on my best school teacher frown, daring him to come any closer.

    He doesn't read body language, because now he's managed to stand up and is about to walk towards me.

    I get up.

    "Ma'm," he says, "Not only are your roses beautiful, they are thriving...and will outlive all of us. May I...."

    "No," I shout, too quickly, sure he wants to pick my prize begonias--which clearly are not roses.

    He ignores me and is already bent to the flowers, his head wobbling as he inhales the intoxicating fragrance of the Angelique, then he looks up, pauses long enough to make sure I see him, rasps, "I needed that," then turns and continues his slow progress down the sidewalk.

    "Thank you," I say, too late and too quietly for him to hear, but grateful and aware that I am slow to recognize angels when they appear, but at least I saw this one.