Strangers Blessing Strangers

Monday evening.

Korean food, my mother beside me, a good friend across the table.

After dinner, we say goodbye to the friend on a street corner, then goodnight to each other under a streetlamp.

I walk home down a sloping street.

Halfway down, beside a stone stoop, a yellow bucket. In it, roses. Tucked behind the roses, a sheet of notebook paper:

“Spread Love. Free Roses.”

It is written by a hand I do not know, would not recognize if I passed it on the street.

I don’t take a rose. Seeing the yellow bucket is grace enough.

I get home. I open the door, open the windows.

And in comes the air of an evening blessed by the nourishing love that only strangers can bless other strangers with.

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