Mike had no home
wore an all weather cap
eight layers of clothes
and always carried the same soiled hankie
which made him a man for all seasons.

Although Mike was sixty four and I was four
he was my best friend.
One bitter winter day as we sat on the green bench near
the wire fence my Grandfather put up to protect our
family from both real and imagined danger,
I asked Mike if we could count
the clothes he had on.

With great laughter that hushed the sound of the harsh winter wind
Mike carefully removed each layer of clothes
which formed a rainbow of colors on the snow bank.
Mike told me all the clothes were gifts
and you always say thank you when you receive a gift.

Mike removed his heavy gray coat and we said thank you,
his faded blue jacket and we said thank you, and
his red sweater and we said thank you.
Mike taught me eight lessons in manners
with the removal of each piece of clothing that winter day.

My world was never as complete or uncomplicated
as the days I spent with Mike on the bench
Mike was like a magician producing pieces of stale
bread from his secret pockets.
I always said thank you as he shared his bread.
In the eyes of a four year old the pieces of bread
were elegant gifts to be marveled at as much as eaten.

One winter day my mother yelled for me to come home.
she told me Mike’s bread had germs.
as my mother washed my mouth out with soap and water
she warned me never to eat with Mike again.

Mike could not hear me tapping from my bedroom window whenever he came by.
With no friend to eat lunch with Mike never came to my
house the next winter.

This was the beginning of my life becoming complicated
incomplete
and crazy.