An Angel and A Perfect Memory

I met an angel on a summer morning. It’s a perfect memory. Some of us lick the edges of life. Others live with a sore patch, constantly rubbing the wound, either keeping it fresh or making it fester. Most of us keep on like freight trains loaded with debris.

I find relief and restoration in crystalline moments when action is the distillation of love and courage. I experienced one on a sidewalk in Harlem lit softly by a summer morning. About ten quiet blocks south of the Metro North station on 125^th Street, I saw a woman in a wheelchair with paper on her lap.

I was drawn to her wheelchair, then spell-bound by her face. She had the countenance of an angel and an aura of contentment. Her face was round, smooth, open to the sun, and made whole by a beatific smile. She radiated love, and I will never forget her.

When I approached to say hello, she opened her mouth and hesitated. Her words came slowly and deliberately. She didn’t seem bothered by the limitations of her expression. She was patient and determined to talk to me. Most of all, I thought she was brave. Who would chance speaking to a stranger when the space between each word was so big? I asked her if she had a stroke, and she said yes.

She was a Jehovah’s Witness, sharing the value of family dinner and ditching your cell phone. Family dinner is practically a religion in our house, but I pretended like the nugget was news to me. As for cell phones, who could disagree? I leaned over and hugged her when I said goodbye. I regretted not spending more time with her.

It turned out her sister was standing at the end of the block, keeping an eye on things. At first glance she was just another woman on a city sidewalk. She became the able big sister to a fragile sibling when we spoke. Her job was to watch over an angel, but it’s the angels who watch over us.