Honor

I feel happy, and I realize it’s because I’m breathing in the scent of fresh earth. I’m walking up to a landscaper, busy digging out weeds. I smile at him. I’m going to pass him again when I double back on my walk. I wonder what he thinks. Is it fair that he’s bent over the ground while I am free to go for a walk in the warm afternoon sun? As I near him the second time, I want to speak with him. If I tell him his artwork is looking nice, will it be patronizing? (Only patronizing because of the assumptions I’ve made of how he might feel about his work?)

I see him. I tell him, “It’s looking good!”

I think of my own grandfather. He wore the same clothes – lightweight blue cotton and a straw hat. He had dirt under his fingernails, too.

In my mind, I drop to my knees in front of the gardener. With hands at my heart, I say:
“I honor you. I honor your work. May you be blessed, and your children, and your children’s children.”

Amen.