Dear Anonymous,
Got his bike back. He's happy with the new coat. Three men standing together all with new coats. And they're warm. Three men with struggles. Three kind men now given to pulling my leg and kindly messing with me.
Another comes up to me abruptly and stares at me with expressionless eyes and without preamble asks, 'You got any socks?'
I look into his eyes. Those beautiful eyes that always remind me of some infinite nature we are kin to, and try and balance that with my own shortness and offer 'How 'bout we start with 'Good Morning'. I think that's a better start.'
He softens; he grins; he says good morning and makes sure he says good bye before he leaves. I don't demand this but it sure helps.
This morning I feel the weight of addiction. The compulsions. The desperations. The dope sick. The excuses. The desire to 'be good' and 'do good' and the failure of that and the bricks that shame becomes, paving a road to an altogether parallel hell of self loathing and worthlessness.
Gloves. Socks. And hand knit hats knit just for this crew by an amazing eighty plus year old woman in Massachusetts. Their eyes lit up. It sparked smiles. Thank you for that, Dear Anonymous.