I stopped because I needed to catch the scent of the blossom and because tiredness and sadness were making my feet too heavy to move.
The old man shuffled down Harlesden High Street in comfortable robes and an embroidered fez-like hat that looked made for Eritrean weather not this chilly spring day. Leaning on his walking stick, he stopped by my side. Are you ok? he asked in broken English.
Slightly gutted that I must have looked as rough as I felt, I was nevertheless touched by the kindness of a stranger who chose to not pass by.
Hey, angels walk the street all the time. We’re lucky for that, my friend said to me later. It’s good you can see them.