The Foreign Service Journal, June 2005

sidewalk. Rosa lifted her head. Dusty, paint-splattered boots, with broken laces and a hole in the big toe, stopped short in front of her face. “¡Dios mio, hija! I was just walking along, look- ing for some shade to eat my lunch, when I see you lying across the sidewalk. Are you okay? What hap- pened?” The old man clumsily helped Rosa to a sitting posi- tion. She wiped her nose again with the back of her wrist and looked at the gentleman. He was covered with gray hair; a long mop on his head melted into the wiry brush on his face, encircling his brown-wrinkled skin. Paint speckles had caught in the web of his beard. His kind, coffee-colored eyes peered down at her. He gently led her back to a tree trunk. “Are you okay, hija? Can you speak?” “Yes, I’m fine,” Rosa croaked. “Fine wouldn’t be the word. Those knees ought to ache.” Rosa glanced down at her legs and let out a groan. Her knees looked like hamburger. Bloody rivulets fol- lowed the spidery runs of her torn pantyhose. She could feel every heartbeat. The old gentleman walked up the sidewalk and retrieved a large paper sack and a milk jug filled with water. “I dropped these and ran when I saw you lying there,” he explained as he unwrapped the paper bag. Under the tree, he laid out a stack of tortillas wrapped in a dishcloth, a battered metal spoon, and a container of refried beans. He flattened the bag and took the tortillas out of the dish- cloth. “We can use this to clean your knees,” he offered, waving the cloth. She nodded and sniffled like a child. She was con- tent to have someone take care of her for a while. She drew in her breath sharply as he poured a stream of water over each knee. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled each time, glancing up solicitously at her contorted face. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Thank you for helping me.” He nodded and she silently watched the top of his head while he carefully drenched the dishcloth with F O C U S J U N E 2 0 0 5 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 55