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She tenderly held my face with her bony hands. “You have an angelic face,” she said. Then she kissed my forehead.
“I believe in God,” she exclaimed. Pointing her finger upward, she completed her thought. “God will bless you.”
She was a stranger, among so many, on a bus heading west.
She wouldn’t be a stranger for long when we both stepped off at a busy intersection. I gave her my hand to help her down as she clumsily negotiated a small rolling suitcase and walking cane.
I glanced into her eyes. She seemed confused.
“Can I have two dollars?” she asked. “I need it to buy a sandwich for lunch.”
I was nowhere near downtown Miami. This seventy-something woman dressed in brown slacks and a matching blouse didn’t look like a crack addict.
Noticing her accent, I asked her where she was from. “I’m from Paris.”
“I don’t have much money in the bank myself,” I said. Reaching down into my purse, I handed her two bucks.
“Thank you,” she said. A smile beamed across her face.
The crosswalk lights were out of order. Cars sped westbound and eastbound over four lanes.
“Here, grab my arm,” I said.
We crossed Bird Road together. And on that journey of just about a hundred feet, I thought intensely about my mother, who had just passed away. While the sky was about to burst, my beautiful mom came to me in the middle of a road assaulted by frantic drivers and surrounded by hideous strip malls.
Across the street, my accidental companion pointed at a gas station. “That’s where I’ll get my sandwich. Thank you. Thank you.”
I pointed south. “I’m going to visit my father,” I said. “Enjoy your lunch.”
We said goodbye.
The rain came down hard and I rushed on foot to the assisted living facility. I’m terrified of lightning.
But another kind of bolt struck me.
I decided then that dad would come home to live with me. I couldn’t bear to see this old Parisian woman begging for a paltry sum of money. I couldn’t bear to see my dad in a place where vestiges of lives were waiting to die in a solitary hell.
Here on earth, with a heart still beating, a once daring life fading away in the same room where my mother had taken her last breath.
I felt a great sense of freedom and I was no longer afraid. Lightning be damned.
Soaking wet, I marched into my dad’s room. “Papi, you’re coming home.”
After my visit, I waited for the eastbound bus back to the Metrorail station.
I wasn’t surprised when I saw her. I don’t believe in coincidences.
“How was lunch?” I asked. “Oh,” she replied. “It was delicious. Thank you.”
The bus was loud and she was hard of hearing. I had to lean close and speak loudly in her ear. “What’s your name?” I asked. “I’m Mary.”
We shook hands.
“I’m Maria de los Angeles.”
No surprise. No coincidence. My mom whispered a reminder. "Remember, I knew I was going to have a girl named Maria long before you were born."
On the way back, I learned that Mary was indeed from Paris. A widow with only one child who lives in Canada and rarely visits Miami. Mary makes ends meet as part-time seamstress at home, despite her failing eyesight.
"I'm tired," she said. "I'll take a nap when I get home."
As we approached the station, I reached into my purse and handed her another two dollars. “Here’s your next lunch, Mary.”
She tenderly held my face with her bony hands. “You have an angelic face,” she said. Then she kissed my forehead.
“I believe in God,” she exclaimed. Pointing her finger upward, she completed her thought. “God will bless you.”
I helped Mary find her transfer bus and we hugged goodbye.
I no longer need to take Bus 58 now that dad is home, saving me 3 hours of travel time. I’ll probably never see Mary again, but I’ll never forget her.
Mary, like my dad and my mother before him, is approaching the last stop, the final transfer. Sometimes you meet angels with wrinkled faces en route. Sometimes they fall from heaven and ask for lunch money in return for a priceless blessing.
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