Dear Anonymous,
He approaches me, shoulders up at his ears, concerned, taking a drag from a cigarette.
'You know this guy, Joanne , but I gotta tell you. He just asked me to score him a fatal dose of fentanyl. I won't do it but he's havin' a bad day.' And so the morning starts. And I know if that fella wants it bad enough and can pay for it, someone as desperate as him will supply it. Good morning.
Another regular stops by and is shaking. He's trying to stop drinking, has been hospitalized this week for suicidal thoughts/intentions. 'I'm trying.' he says (and he is working with a caseworker).
Mike stands with his bags of socks and clothing we just put together to distribute and says 'Ya' gotta find something you love that makes you feel good and just stick to it. I walked away from all that and took up the drugs again and messed up my rent and everything. I gotta do the things I love. Help out my community... and paint...I just gotta' stick with that.'. Meanwhile a coffee card here ( thank you). A flannel lined shirt there (thank you). Yet another backpack (thank you).
And the inevitable daily distress call of, 'All my stuff was stolen...AGAIN'.
There is a deep ache. Woundedness.