I’ve always loved this picture. I keep it by the bed. My Nathan was just a janitor. We lived paycheck to paycheck, often worrying if we’d have enough food to last the week. But we never went hungry. Never. Nathan made sure of that. And despite the lack of money, Nathan always scrapped aside enough to buy us some decent clothes. ‘You always wanna look good,’ he constantly told the kids. ‘Cause if ya lookin’ good, people’ll treat ya good, they’ll respect. They’ll hate yer guts but they’ll see you’re not nobody that don’t deserve the respect.’ Most nights, after coming home, Nathan’d take off his bright blue janitor overalls and put on a nice tie and shirt. Slip into the only pair of shoes he owned, shoes he took the time to shine every single day. Glued to the mirror, he’d spiff himself up with a little cologne. Then, with just enough daylight to be seen, he’d stand across the street. It was like he wanted the world to see he was so much more than a janitor. That he was a man of grace and dignity and that everyone should know it. And everyone did. Not only because of his appearance. Nathan was the most charming man you ever met. He could smile at you and you felt like the most important person in the world. He treated everyone with the grace and dignity he expected you to recognize in him. The hookers, the pimps, the drug dealers. It didn’t matter. They all stopped to chat and smoke a cig with Nathan. They’d laugh and talk and even though we couldn’t afford it, Nathan might loan them a dollar or three. I think that’s why in the 43 years we lived in this neighborhood, we never had a lick of trouble. Everyone waved at us and kept going. The gangs didn’t bother our kids. We’ve never been robbed. Nope. Not once. Not one lick of trouble. I truly believe no one who had anything to do with that crap wanted to have to see Nathan standing out there, leg propped up on that hydrant, looking at them differently. Come dinner time, I’d send one of the kids across the street to fetch their father. He’d come upstairs and he might take off the tie. Maybe. For the most part he sat there at the table all crisp and official and we’d talk about everything under the sun. I don’t believe there was any greater joy for Nathan than the sound of our children’s voices. As each of our kids moved off into their own lives, there was a little more money around the house and I encouraged Nathan to go ahead and get himself some good clothes. He kept buying me these dresses and other stuff, like pants and jewelry. When we went out to dinner or a family thing, I made sure to wear something Nathan got me. He loved showing me off. But around the house I was more likely to stomp around in my housecoat and a head scarf. And every night I’d look out the window and see Nathan, foot on the hydrant, those two-tone shoes practically glowing, looking handsomer every day. One night I called him to come in for supper. There he was with his foot in place, chatting with a couple of the guys, passing around a beer. He waved with a smile, motioned he’d be along shortly. I had the dishes set before realizing he wasn’t there. I looked out to see one of the hookers was talking to him now. She was a nice girl and Nathan never stopped trying to talk her into going back to Minnesota and getting herself together. I waited until that conversation was over before calling Nathan again. He nodded at me and I looked at him with annoyed puzzlement. But I went and put the food on the table. When I looked again, he was leaning on his leg, looking about the way he did sometimes. Like there was so much more to see than there was yesterday. Frowning, I put on my overcoat. As I crossed the street, I know my face must have been twisted into some kind of hell because Nathan looked about to die. “What’s wrong with you, man?” I asked, keeping my voice down, which he appreciated. “Nothing,” he smiled softly. “Then why don’t you come on upstairs? Dinner’s getting cold.” “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetie,” he said. “Sorry my ass,” was all I had. “Now com’on.” I went to go and noticed he hadn’t move. “What is it?” A great big smile plastered his face and Nathan put out an arm. Reluctantly, I stepped into it, let the arm fold around my shoulders. Nathan kissed my forehead gently and looked at me with soulful eyes and I must admit I got a little worried. “What?” I asked. He didn’t answer right away. “I’m stuck.” I gaped at him. He said delicately, “My leg’s cramped. I can’t get it down.” It took me a moment to realize he was serious. So in pretending to share a loving hug, I put my hand under his thigh. I gripped, lifted and tugged. Nathan let go the softest whimper as I discreetly helped him lower the leg to the ground. Waving bravely to everyone, he struggled to not lean on me too much as I helped him back to our second floor apartment. After that day, Nathan never rested his foot on the fire hydrant again. He’d stand against a building, or rest on a car. He might even stand over the hydrant but he never again raised a leg to take a stance on his throne. Whenever I look at the picture, I think about how wonderful that man was. How Nathan stood in the middle of all that was wrong with this neighborhood and let the world know he was better than that. That they could be better than that. That someone could stand in the filthiest spot on earth and still be completely clean. Whenever I look at that picture, I remember the day he couldn’t get his leg down and was too proud to ask anyone for help. And I laugh until I cry. And then I cry until I’m laughing. My lord, I miss that man. I miss him so much…