He is an old soul, this Patrick. I have known several lovely Patricks in my life, but this Patrick somehow connects me to the Saint we celebrate today. After all, 1620 years ago, he was a little boy too. My modern friend is one of the kindest I have ever met. On the first day of our acquaintance, as his family and ours were sitting companionably on our wall at 1008 St. Patrick Street, (really!) he thought the conversation might be going too long to continue without sustenance. Before we knew it, we were handed granola bars and mugs of milk so that we might be fed. Mind you, we were on our side of the street, but we had not thought of such a thing. Patrick’s ‘wide boundary’ version of hospitality has continued, from a glad cry of greeting to impromptu gifts of flowers. He cannot know this—-or might he?—-but these wee flowers, which are the float-in-a-bowl variety as the stems are left to live on for another day, take me swiftly back to the early days of my own mommy-hood. T