Last week I blogged about an email from a colleague, Melissa Roberson, who claims to be no angel. However, she keeps having these angelic moments. Here’s the latest:
If there’s a line for the handing out of angel wings, I really should be at the tail end of it. I’ve done and said many, um, un-angelic things in my almost 62-year-long life. But something seems to be shifting.
A few days ago, I was home, walking along the Hudson River waterfront in Hoboken, NJ, to buy some SPF skin cream from the dermatologist. The outdoor cafes were beginning to fill, this being the beginning of a beautiful summer weekend.
Read More: An Angel Named Bill
In one less-crowded cafe, a group of waiters gathered around two young women, one of whom was celebrating a birthday. As I approached, they all began singing “Happy Birthday” as they placed a cupcake in front of her, one candle burning brightly.
It would have been so easy to smile down at the birthday girl, to keep going. But I didn’t. I stopped and joined in the singing, a lone sidewalk stroller, bellowing at the top of her lungs.
The celebrant was clearly delighted. I moved on happily, feeling two little bumps beginning to form under my shoulder blades. Maybe I can grow a pair of wings after all.
