It was a cold evening.  It was the kind that makes people scrunch up their shoulders and draw their coats tighter to their shivering bodies.  Snow dusted the city sidewalks, and salt began to dry and cake on my boots.  We were in good spirits.  It was Christmastime, and the city was a-light with the melodies of car horns and carols of far-off trains.  My cousin lead us to a bakery, a famous one, so he said.  When we arrived, the doorway was full of people.  There fluttered a dull rainbow of scarves and coattails that weaved itself around the block.  We ran to secure a place as my uncle sighed in complaint.  I supposed there was gold in the pastries if this many people wanted them.  As we reached the entrance with icy fingers and quivering legs, I noticed a man standing off to the side.  He held his hands out, begging for spare coins.  I had some in my pocket, but I figured I should save it for whatever would be inside.  The light of the bakery was a cool yellow.  People filled in every available space.  It was so hot, I wished to shed my coat.  At the back of my mind, I thought of the man outside.  I thought of his pale scarf and the wheeled metal basket of supplies he had.  Perhaps I should give him money, I thought; he must be cold.

We waited very long for our chance to order. My parents left my brother and I with my cousin, aunt, and uncle to get food for us.  As we exited the bakery, we began to shake because of the sudden blast of wind.  My parents hailed us over; their bodies appeared to be haloed by the car light. I smiled knowing they had the heater going already.  Again, I passed the man.  When we reached the car, my mother presented us with satay from a nearby restaurant. The steam leaking from the foil instantly made my mouth water.

It struck me then.  He must be hungry.  He must be lonely.  I asked my family to wait.  I took my potion, the foil immediately warming my hands, and strode toward him.

“Hello,” I said, “I’ve got something for you to eat.”

His eyes were as dark as his skin.  His beard was gray, peppered with white wisps.  I placed the food in his hand along with the change in my pocket.  He thanked me with a wide smile.  He was missing a few teeth.  With a jovial chuckle, his crow’s feet revealed themselves around his eyes, and he told me I had a kind heart.  A smile crept its way onto my face.  There was a deep growl in his cheery voice, and his eyes were tired and old.  I think I recall him telling me he had fought in a war or two.  When he asked me where I was from, I promptly answered Chicago.  With a nod and a low laugh, he mentioned he had been there before. He said it was a beautiful city. By the looks of the tears in his ice-speckled shoes and his small array of worn belongings, I could tell he had traveled many places.  Everything about him was aged and wise.  In his eyes, though he appeared a frost-bitten beggar, a spark shone brighter than the whole city.  I wanted to stay longer and listen.  The snow seemed to fall slower, and the streetlamps seemed to glow softer.

Everything had become more beautiful to me.

It was all over much too soon.  After a few minutes, he shook his head and said he shouldn’t keep me long.  He thanked me for lending my ears and my curious eyes, and humbly requested one more thing of me: to never forget him. For when someone is forgotten is when they truly die.  I asked him his name as I sealed our deal with a handshake, chilled palm to chilled palm. It was Menard.