Dear Anonymous,
He doesn't love to be photographed. But he gives permission. He's looking for a pair of shoes we had for him yesterday. But he can't find them. Size 15.
'I wasn't coherent yesterday.' he whispers in a quiet and raspy voice.
He asks for sage, a pair of socks 'Can you spare two?'. He needs a shower he says. We get some clean clothes rounded up.He taps his medicine bundle with his hand, near his heart and nods his head ever so slightly with gratitude to Maria, of the Penobscot Nation.Thank you.
He does not like being photographed and changes his posture immediately when the camera comes out ...but he allows me and I know this is a gift from him. He is a man of tender heart.
The card that Mike received as part of a gift after a weekend when he overdosed...
Dear Anonymous,
The card that Mike received as part of a gift after a weekend when he overdosed and was good as dead had no one intervened with Narcan. He is hanging onto it. Closely.
Says it helps him.He is grateful for it, thank you Dear Anonymous.
In a world where a policeman came through and said,
'I'm sick of all your needles. I'm sick of all you addicts. You should all die.'
When this is what is said out loud to you.
Mike is clear this is not ALL police.
Not at all. And he was very clear about this.
But words can cut like knives.
Homeless. Not heartless.
I was out with my camera per usual at first light. On my own. Per usual. As I drove out of the city...
Dear Anonymous,
I was out with my camera per usual at first light. On my own. Per usual. As I drove out of the city I saw him sitting on a park bench by himself in the sun. Hat off. One arm over the back of the bench. Looking relaxed. He recognizes my car. I pull over. Mask. Check. Gloves. Check. Social distance. Check. If I am asymptomatic I sure as hell don't want him exposed. That's why.
He places two crumpled twenty dollar bills into the bin in my car.
'Get some baking supplies. I like your baking.' he says.
His face is swollen. His speech thick and raspy all at once.
I ask him to reconsider. Take back half? No, he says adamantly.
He responds, 'I got my stimulus check.'
I know he has recently enjoyed a bottle of Jamesons, a favorite of his. I assume there will be many more purchased.
But I am on the street and someone on the street, in the street, of the street has donated to Dear Anonymous.
Let that sink in a bit.
He accepts socks, a coffee card and a pair of pants. The currency of connection.
PS: The gentleman described is not connected in any way to the location in this image.
Everyone distant. Everyone thick as thieves. Love arrows arcing through the air covered in masks and gloves.
It was dark this morning. Sodden with half a foot of spring snow. Poor man's fertilizer. I think of Maple snow. And I think of the men at the ferry terminal. Displaced and without home are congregating as they do every morning. This morning? They actually are maintaining to 6' distances. This makes me so happy. I leave a bag of socks and coffee cards they distribute amongst themselves.
A tip of the hat, some really sweet responses through the air.
Everyone distant. Everyone thick as thieves. Love arrows arcing through the air covered in masks and gloves.
He doesn't like the camera much. But that day, a year or so ago, he gave permission.
Dear Anonymous,
He doesn't like the camera much. But that day, a year or so ago, he gave permission. Gave himself to the image. The moment held a gravitas for me.
I had just been asked to read a letter to him from his mom. The carefully scripted handwritten letter was worn and wilted from the repeated crumpling from fist to pocket and back again.
It was full of love.
It was full of I love you son.
And I fell in love too.
All of us wanting to go home.
Oh, the heartbreaking complexity of our human hearts.
And the words that stay in my head are the words of a man I know from the streets...
I go from my kitchen which is heated to my bathroom with running water. I change the sheets on my bed and fluff the comforter. I crack the window a bit to bring in fresh air. I notice the generous pile of books I have bedside that I will devour like candy.
And the words that stay in my head are the words of a man I know from the streets who said recently, huddled over, enveloped beneath his hood, in a quiet broken voice 'I just wanna go home.'
Gearing up. Switching out backpacks. Broken backpacks replaced. Organizing stuff. And coffee and a piece of cake.
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.
This is dear Charles...
Dear Anonymous,
This is dear Charles, who has a roof over his head and a coat over his big heart but lives with one foot on the streets. Watching out for others. Watching.
We are standing together, maybe 4 of us, and they reminisce about GIMME and about NIKI, both homeless brothers who died on the streets this year. I listen to these men reflect on their street brothers. Their challenges. The injustices they had witnessed and their sense of loss. They become quiet.
We were able to supply Charles with a lovely womens' backpack filled with womens clothing to distribute to the young girls he sees sleeping outside. Thank you Dear Anonymous. He was grateful. And to lighten the mood we offer to add some new ladies briefs recently donated, but, well... they are rather large and he is both embarrassed and totally taken off guard. I can still hear his laughter echoing down Commercial Street.