Dear Anonymous,
Gearing up. Switching out backpacks. Broken backpacks replaced. Organizing stuff. And coffee and a piece of cake.
And all he says this morning as he arrives in the dark before dawn, looking up at me leaning, over balancing his pack,
'I'm still trying to get home.'
Damn.
I'm still. Trying to get home.
And a little something buckles inside me. A minuscule thread chaffs just a bit. Plucked. Makes a sound short of a minor key.
We are all looking to find our way home.
Here's some socks along the way. A set of foot warmers. A hoodie.