The Kiss of An Italian Woman

It was a blustery, billowy day.  The kind that moves half-dead leaves to scoot across the street in front of your car.

She was struggling, straining against the streams of wind, two cloth handled bags in hand and wispy flowered scarf on head.

Son asked, “Shouldn’t we offer her a ride?”

I thought of where we needed to be, what we needed to do…and then I turned around anyway.

Window rolled down, I asked, “Do you need a ride?”

She looked confused, unsure.  I smiled.

Son hopped out to help her in.  She smiled, and patted his hand.

The scent of her Italian bread from market filled the car, as she told me where to turn.

“My name is Kim.  What is yours?”

“Maria Borcelli,” she answered in broken English.

We pulled into her driveway, she took my hand.

“Thank you,” her eyes filled with tears.

Son jumped out of car to help her out.

Still holding my hand, and looking me right in the eyes, she said things that our separate languages could not…and kissed my hand.

What reward!  For a two minute detour.

What I might have missed if I had not offered a stranger, now friend, a ride home.

Kisses of angels and the tears of saints would have found their way elsewhere, but not with me.

Linking with the beautiful Emily at: