“It’s okay,” Eli interrupted, insistently. “Mom says when someone’s working hard, they deserve a break. You’ve been walking a long time.” The man’s eyes glistened. He took the cup with both hands, drinking slowly, reverently. When he unwrapped the candy, he ate it with care, as though each bite reminded him of something he’d almost forgotten. Then, kneeling to Eli’s height, he asked, “What’s your name, champ?” “Eli.” “You go to school, Eli?” “Yeah! Sunshine Preschool, just two blocks that way. We’re learning about dinosaurs this week.”
The man smiled genuinely this time, a warmth spreading from his eyes to his face. “That’s wonderful. You just made my day—maybe even my whole year.” He straightened, tipping his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. He’s a fine boy, and thank you, Eli.” That evening, Eli couldn’t stop talking about the mailman. He drew pictures, crayon wings sprouting from the postal worker’s back, labeling him a superhero. “Mom, he doesn’t wear a cape, but he’s a hero.” The following afternoon, when we picked Eli up from preschool, a bright red car gleamed at the end of the street. As we drew closer, I realized it was a Bugatti, impossibly sleek and loud with quiet confidence, a rare jewel against the mundane backdrop of minivans and sedans.Continue reading…
