It was November 23, 1992. I remember the date, you see, because earlier that morning I had a kiss planted firmly on my lips by a boy. Now, don't think this was just any ordinary kiss. This was a quick peck from the cutest boy in the entire fourth grade, the Oliver Wilson. Okay, I realize that was very cheesy; but with great importance comes great cheesiness. Is that even a word? It is now.

Back to the point. That morning, after the fabulous kiss, my mother and I had left the sanctity of our little village in Maryland for the hustle and bustle of Times Square. It was a nice little weekend adventure, but out of all the shopping sprees and restaurant detours, I remember this one particular moment the most.

My mother had taken me just a few blocks outside the center of Times Square so we could enter with proper dramatics. We were walking along the sidewalk underneath a construction platform, when I smelled a strange scent that was what nothing like construction—let alone New York City—should smell like. The aroma was like a mixture of fruits all in one; it was almost like a candle out of a grocery that reeked of satsumas, strawberries, and limes. Let me emphasize almost, though, because it was the sweetest and most pleasant scent my nose had ever had the pleasure of sniffing. When I looked up to my mother, she wasn't fazed. I remember though, the smell so strong and sweet, how couldn't she have noticed?

So we trotted along, finally entering the focus of our destination. Excitement travelled up from our tummies to our noses and we knew that this beautiful city held in store for us a weekend that we desperately needed.

And that was when I felt it. This instant, unnerving surge of sorrow and sadness shook my being, causing my hand to slip out of my mother's. I turned around, and that was when I saw him… Staring straight at me. His eyes plunged into my soul. I could almost read him. Almost being the key word, again. I saw enough to know that he'd lost something very important. He was so hurt and alone.

I paced over to him and grabbed his hand with both of mine. My mom was busy on the phone with my dad, so I knew I had a good minute or two. I smiled at him and a smile crept onto his face, too. His clothes were tattered and worn, but he didn't look homeless. He looked new, fresh.

"Mister," I mumbled, then gathered up my courage and spoke clearly. "Mister, you know what would look good on you?"

"What then?" His voice was very northern and very not American.

I furrowed my brow, preparing myself to be frustrated with the refusal I knew he'd make. "You'd look good in a big leather jacket. It'd match your funny ears." I de-furrowed my brow and let my smile shine through again. "I bet you could wiggle them!"

He smiled and patted my head. "I think you may be right. Haven't tried it yet. Brand new me, whole new things I never even knew about!"

"You're silly," I laughed. Looking back, I can see now how daft I was and how right he was. "But you know what? Before I go, I want to say," I sniffed his sleeve, "You smell like the sweetest stuff I've ever smelled. It's fantastic!"

"Woah there, big word! I quite like that word. 'Fantastic.' Thank you very much, little one. I'll be sure to heed your advice." He smiled as I let go of his hand. I watched him walk down the street and into a big blue box.

"Remy!" I turned around to acknowledge my mother's call, then waved her over to where I was. "There you are! What were you doing?"

"Just lookin'," I replied, turning back around only to find the blue box had disappeared.