Dear Anonymous,
He comes by this morning to say hello. Has his own place now. Livin' the dream. I mentioned he looks so much better than he did deep into last winter.
He says,
'Yeah. You mean when I was hating life?'
Then, the way he lit a cigarette for the man with a bloodied face who stumbles by. The cigarette had already fallen out once, barely noticed but then picked up again. Fumbling, swollen, stiff fingers, clenching soiled bags. A back pack falling off his shoulders.
So he cups his hands tenderly around the end of the cigarette dangling from the man's lips. Like a benediction. And shelters that little flame as it casts a brief glow beneath that drawn up hood. He takes a grateful drag.
That's what love looks like sometimes.