Sidewalk angel

 "I wonder how long I'll be able to walk around like this."

Demeter is seated beside me in a sushi restaurant.  We've walked from the bus stop in the heat wave, which is supposed to take four minutes, according to Google Maps.  It's taken something like ten, Demeter, now 94, uses a walker, and plods with deep concentration and no sunhat.  (I'd meant to tuck an extra in my bag, but only remembered everything else we need for today's dental appointment.)

We resume the trudge after a lunch for which neither of us has quite had the appetite.  It's a long, long block between Blanshard and Douglas Streets.  No shelter or shade on the north side.  I'd have directed Demeter to the shady side, but that would cost us five minutes we don't have.

On the blazing bright sidewalk, a pale young man, with strawberry blond hair and no shirt, sits cross-legged, head drooping.  There's a sign on the pavement in front of him - he's scrawled it on a piece of cardboard box with a marker: ELEVEN CENTS (11¢) -- THANK YOU

He reappears ahead of us, as we approach the crosswalk.  Two scraps of plastic, about the size and shape of sandwich bags, appear to be attached just below his shoulder-blades, like the wings of a angel.