A little man in his late seventies br trudged along br in front of the Hebrew Home For the Aged in Coney Island br grey skull, faded skin, br huge rounded hump on his back br forcing him to totter on in a stooped position. br “The Messiah is coming, ” he said, br “Are you waiting also? br I know it’s a long time we’re waiting. br But He will come. Otherwise, br what is the meaning of our Earthly existence? ” br In order to look at me he tilted his head br causing his lips and cheeks to tremble. br “There must be a purpose to life br other than death. No? br What do you say? Walk with me. Walk for the Messiah. br If I only stand my strange shape pains me.” br Just then Angie strolled over br and said, “ Irving Frankel, you’re looking good.” br Then appeared a great rush of words: br “We want too much. No? br Perhaps not to want happiness, br not to think of it, then He comes? br Perhaps my suffering—the Messiah’s gift? br Never do I rest. Later? After the end? Then? br “Irving Frankel, ” said Angie, her voice so sweet, so gentle, br his name like a benediction. br No words now, silence br staring at Angie. “You’re a handsome lad, ” she said br kissing him softly on the cheek. br Still silence, his face serene, br waiting br Angie kissing him again br this time br a smile.