Somewhere near Fifth Avenue, we stopped in a doorway to take refuge. I timidly told Lenny that my clasps were open. Lenny took his bare red hands out of his pockets and bent down to refasten the snow-crusted, icy metal clasps. Ashamed that Lenny had to take care of me, I stared straight ahead and saw the image of a man walking toward us through the chiffon curtain of snow.
I was unable to tell how old he was—all adults seemed the same age to me—but he was tall, thin, and had a gentle, handsome face. He wore no hat. There was a scarf around his neck, and his overcoat, like ours, was caked with snow.
I don’t remember if he spoke to me or not. What I do recall is that he kneeled down before me, his face level with mine. I found myself gazing into soft brown eyes, feeling bewildered and mute. When he was gone, I felt his warmth in the soft, wine-colored scarf that he wrapped tightly around my head.
I don’t remember ice-skating that day, or how we got home. All my memory holds is the snow, the kindness of a stranger, and my big brother, Lenny.