By Jim Latham
The beggar huddled near the taco cart. His skin was dirty, his clothes ragged.
When the old lady offered him tacos, he refused.
She insisted; he accepted.
She passed him a plate with a shaking hand.
He rose, his skin glowing, his rags radiant.
The beggar took the old lady’s hand. Her back straightened, her aches disappeared, her face became smooth.
She attempted to kneel, but he refused the worship.
“Eat with me,” he said.
They ate sitting on a bench.
“Look,” he said, indicating the setting sun.
She looked. When she turned back to the bench, he had vanished.
“I write because my life goes to hell if I don’t.” – the writer