A new figure has appeared in  my neighborhood.  He has a thin frame, steely hair, and wears sandals.  He walks slowly down the street, past my house, both ways — south, then north.  He smiles often, nods, and sometimes bows slightly with his hands held in front of him when he sees someone coming down their walk.

Tonight as I left to go to a meeting, he spoke to me.  It’s a beautiful evening, he said, and gave that small bow of acknowledgment.  His dark skin and lilting accent tell me that he is Pakistani or Indian, probably an older uncle or grandfather of the family two blocks down from where I live. The wife of the household wears traditional garb when she stands with the children waiting for the school bus.  She keeps her eyes cast downward.

I returned the man’s greeting, then stopped to try to reinstate the sidewalk light which the rain and wind knock slant-wise.  He paused and observed my failed attempts.  I think it might be broken, I remarked, and he bowed again.  Yes, yes, I believe it is, he replied.  That happens.  Then he gifted me with a broad and toothless smile.  A rush of joy rose from some place deep in me, some place that it must have been hiding, waiting for this second, waiting for this turn of the earth, for this circle of the sun.

Well,  I finally ventured.  Have a good walk.  He grinned at me.  You have a lovely evening, too, please, he told me, and continued on his walk.

He left me with a sense that he would be greatly disappointed, should my evening not turn out to be lovely.  I find myself quite obligated to insure that this little man does not suffer disappointment.