There’s a little Irish guy, with a mane of white hair, I see most mornings in front of an apartment building hosing down its sidewalk.
How do I know he’s Irish?
He has that special twinkle, inspiring me to say hello.
At most, he’ll nod, blinking back eyes so blue, they shine in the moonlight.
I try not taking his aloofness personally, greeting him like a persistent puppy just the same.
It’s Sunday, en route home from an errand, when there’s a guy coming the other way in a dark suit…pants a tad too wide in the leg, a white button-down offset by a bright red tie, no overcoat over his suit jacket properly buttoned.
As I’m about to pass him, he says with a bit of a brogue, “Hey, how ya doin’? Beautiful mornin’ it is?”
Suddenly I’m seeing shamrocks and shillelaghs, that Irish lilt so pleasing to the ear.
It takes a second, but I see, it’s the nodder, 4 blocks up.
Well I’ll be.
We both stop.
“I didn’t recognize you,” I say, “ya know, without your hose.”
His face gets a little red as I’m kinda thinking mine does, but being members of polite society, both ignore my unfortunate choice of language.
“I’m on ma’ way to help at Saint Thomas,” he says, “to greet, and pass the basket,” a whiff of what smells like Old Spice salting the air.
“Oh yeah?” I say, “that sounds nice, to do a little service.”
He smiles, sharing a space in his front teeth along with dimples that could run for Mayor.
“Have a blessed day,” he says, giving his best nod, “see ya in the mornin’, God willin’ that is.”