It was the last thing I wanted to do. Walk around my Brooklyn neighborhood on a hot and sticky July afternoon in search of a floor fan. The air conditioning in my apartment had just conked out and who knew when the super would get around to having it fixed. I was in no mood for any of it.
In truth, it was far more than the scorching sun that had me upset. The one-year anniversary of my mother’s death was approaching, and I didn’t know how I was going to handle it. She’d died suddenly, after a late-stage cancer diagnosis. There’d been no time to prepare myself, if that was even possible, and over the past year I’d only begun to take in the reality that I’d never feel her close again.
She’d visited me often from Pennsylvania, always emerging from the bus in a colorful outfit, accessorized to the hilt, ready to see the latest Broadway play or try the newest Italian place in Brooklyn. We never missed the lit-up Christmas tree at New York City’s Rockefeller Center. She’d be in one of her many Christmas sweaters, raring to go, suggesting that I add an extra layer against the cold, or demanding “at least a warm hat, Celeste!” before we left the apartment, just like she did when I went out to play in the snow as a kid.
I passed the last café we’d sat in together. She’d surely ask me if I’d applied sunscreen before going out today. I could almost hear her questioning me.
I walked by a row of brick walk-ups and noticed a sweater neatly draped over the gate out front, a signal that the gently used item was there for the taking. I wasn’t sure who else would look twice at a Christmas sweater on such a day. But I did, knowing Mom would have gotten a chuckle out of the bells and gift boxes that put it over the top even for her. Underneath the sweater, leaning against the gate, was a Touched by an Angel DVD. Roma Downey and Della Reese’s classic was one of Mom’s favorites. Was an angel trying to tell me something?
I reached the corner, and out of nowhere a woman called out to me. “Where’s your hat?” she asked. She was in her seventies, impeccably dressed, with a jaunty straw hat to match her outfit. As she approached, I admired her earring and necklace set. A perfect summer ensemble. Like one Mom would have worn.
“Where’s your hat, young lady?” the woman asked again. “That sun demands a hat!”
Martha introduced herself and we exchanged pleasantries. She said she lived nearby. I didn’t mention my broken air conditioning, my hunt for a fan. Or that she was yet another answer to my prayer to feel Mom close. My neighborhood was full of memories and angels that did just that.
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