My daughter and I exit the L.A. downtown public library.
We spot a Hispanic woman dressed in white, bearing little protection from the grey day other than a rainbow-colored umbrella beneath which she stands.
She sells hot dogs of all varieties—hotdogs with cheese, with onions and peppers, hotdog burritos.
My daughter spies the woman’s basket of pastries, picks up a small pan dulce sparkled with rainbow sprinkles.
I shake my head no; my daughter had already consumed many treats over the holidays.
The woman looks me over, considers my straw hat, worn shoes, and ratty scarf that feels more like a warm and protective home wrapped around my neck.
Perhaps perceiving my no as code for “we can’t afford it,” the woman suggests we keep the pastry for free.
I tell her no thank you.
This time she insists. Her kindness floors me.
She’s selling hotdogs on the street to keep body and soul alive but offers the pan dulce, no charge.
Her intentions are bold and clear as a diamond. To decline her generosity feels like it would be an insult, an unshining of her jeweled gesture.
My daughter and I say, Thank you. Gracias. We share the pastry, which no longer feels like an excess treat, but manna from above.
Wherever that woman is, that saint dressed in white, come rain or shine, bless her.
RichRant 