A Lenten Rose

Last night, waiting for the metro, a frail, young homeless man walked up to me, hand extended offering me a little red rose. I said "no thank you" but he insisted, and finally I took it.

"Do you know what it is?"
"A rose?" (It was tiny, delicate and beautiful: more like a desert rose, with very few petals and deep red tips.)

"Yes! It's a Lenten rose." he replied, and then asked if I had a dollar to spare. Wishing I had a candy bar or power bar stuffed in my purse, I stammered, and before I could even get out an excuse he turned away and walked on down the platform, digging into his paper bag, presumably for another rose.

I closed my eyes, second guessing myself, frustrated with being a woman, and therefore vunerable, and gaurded at the same time (I find dealing with the homeless the most difficult test for feminine virtue). I prayed a quick Hail Mary for him, and went back to my magazine.

When I looked back up the platform, there was no sight of him. But there were several young women, beaming, as they gazed at and smelled their Lenten roses.