"Life is full of little wonders," he said, "and they're enough!"
His genuine smile enticed me, for I felt like I hadn't seen one for a long time.
"Take this little number, for instance," he went on, and he pulled a small dinosaur-looking wind-up toy from his pocket. "This," he said with of a shake of it at me, "was made by a company. It doesn't work by magic or the power of God or any of that mumbo-jumbo, but I don't care. Look."
He turned the red knob on the side a few times, and the little yellow 'legs' started to walk. Its mouth sparked up and I couldn't help but watch intently, my pale eyes becoming starrier.
"It's like earlier today," he continued, "I saw a baby and it just looked at me. All the wisdom in the world can't beat the eyes of an infant."
"That's the sixth of those little toys I've gotten." I asked how come.
"They keep dying on me. I keep all the old ones around. I buy one, it makes me smile, and then it the spark dies. But I never go too long without one. That's just the way it is."
The smoke of the bar rose and I pondered the old man's words.
"Aren't you sad to see it go?" I said, and I surprised myself by not feeling like a preschooler for asking such a question. He thought for a second.
"Perhaps a little. But what's sadness? You can't be happy without sadness." And he smiled again, almost as much as he did when he told me that life is full of wonders.
I prepared to walk out again into the cold, gray New York streets. Cold but not dreary.
"Thank you," I said, leaving.