Gentry of the Bowery

A true story. Consider it prose with a dose of poetry –

Walking up the Bowery this chilly November afternoon,
we passed a group at the edge of the sidewalk,
seated in old office chairs with wheels and one old wheelchair.

Notable for their laughter and evident pleasure in one another’s company.

Some in this gentrifying area might have called them shabby.

But who dares fault shabby sidewalk joy in the cold sun as shadows grow long?

Halfway up the block, a large ebony-skinned, grey-bearded man in an
old olive Army coat,
separated momentarily from the group by some errand,
turned to face us and stretched his arms wide.

“Hey ladies,” he said with a broad smile.

We received it with a smile of our own as I,
expecting the question to follow,
tried to recall if I had given all my singles to
street musicians along the way.

So busy thinking I almost missed the blessing.

“Ladies, you look courageous,” he said, stretching the words into a
sharp
genuine
mysterious
compliment.

“God bless you,” he added.

I thank the grace of that God for helping me

miss only one beat as I answered “And you too,”
my own smile widening,

miss the shame that left me as soon as it came
because this man meant me joy not shame

not miss the gift
not miss the lesson

of give and take.

As we turned the corner, I asked my daughter if
she felt courageous.

“I do now,” she said.