Dear Anonymous,
Socks. Coffee card. A blanket. A piece of banana bread, carefully wrapped. Left here for him from you. Thank you, Dear Anonymous. I ponder the days in my life when I worried about the thread count of my sheets.
A storm is raging. Power is out in many locations.
Dear Anonymous,
A storm is raging. Power is out in many locations. Trees down. Traffic lights down. I presume he sleeps the sleep of the exhausted. So many out here talk about never, ever really sleeping. It's too noisy. Or too unsafe. Or someone will steal your stuff. Or someone is yelling or fighting.
A pair of dry socks from you. A coffee card promising 20 minutes inside for a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. 20 minutes before moving on. Watching your gear. Turn away and it's gone.
I don't know what has had him arrive at this moment, laying in the rain and howling wind. But in this moment, he will have a pair of dry socks and a coffee card. Thanks to you Dear Anonymous.
I would place one of your blankets over him.
Dear Anonymous,
I would place one of your blankets over him. Leave your gifts of socks and a coffee card. And as I leave, he rouses. Sits up. Looks at me, but not really, and immediately rolls over onto his side hauling all the blankets with him. The seagulls continue to peck at food here and there. Good morning.
As I leave town there is someone signing. I pull over this time. And walk across the street to him. When I hand him your new socks, a coffee card and a piece of homemade coffee cake he takes them in his open hands. Hands that are dirty, calloused and swollen. When our hands meet I feel like I am receiving a blessing, and of course, duh, I am. I hadn't looked directly at his face until now. His worn and pained and beautiful face crinkles into a smile just for a moment. And I realize he looks like my father.
'God bless.', he says.
Damn right I think. Blessings.
I see you again. This rainy, chilly morning. On a wet granite step. Curled up.
Dear Anonymous,
I see you again. This rainy, chilly morning. On a wet granite step. Curled up. Entirely covered with thin clothing. I will stop and place a beautiful wool blanket some one has dropped off. Not just someone, but someone whose daughter died from overdose; who knew the streets. I will leave a piece of blueberry cake for you, on her behalf. And new warm socks.
Each day I see you , you arrive with less and less. Each day we add to your altar: backpacks, clothing, socks, and more.
It may be that you sell it all. It may be how this best helps you now. I don't know. And I can only hazard a guess.
Be well.