Yesterday I spotted a man falling asleep in his wheelchair, head tucked into his wrinkled chest. He reminded me of an old, deflated beach ball resting quietly, undisturbed.
His wife was behind him, helping out a passerby who wanted to know which way was Broadway. The old lady's voice sounded like a tea kettle, and she carried a Strand tote, from which I saw a copy of Better Homes and Gardens. I wondered if she sung to her plants.
"Well of course I sing to them, dear! How else would I expect them to grow properly? The key is to keep the same carol for each. That way it's familiar. They know what to expect."
