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.