“Angels will kiss the hands of those who help us,” the man said.
The face behind the handshake was grizzled and weathered. The tanned, leathery skin bespoke years of harshness. The fisherman’s eyes welled with suppressed tears. He yearned for a time when his life was one of plenty. Lakes brimmed with water, he told me. And fish. His children were happy, and life was good.