His bag is just too heavy to carry.

 
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Dear Anonymous,
His bag is just too heavy to carry.
'Can you hold it for me for a few days?' he asks, with a jaw that has been rearranged and a face with steel plates holding it together.
Yes. Yes I can.
We wrap it up and store it in some corner of my car.
'It was just too heavy to carry.'

Some things are just too heavy. Best to put them down. I agree.

He wants to send a message to Evan Andrews, who he met at the YMCA gym and remembers fondly, before being brutally beat on the streets.
'Tell Evan, I love him too. I will pray for his brother. And him.'

He says this as a declaration. Here we are. Wounded and patched together and wound up in addiction and mental health chaos and here he is. Offering love.

Love it is.

'Have any shoes?' he asks... I am soleless.' he said...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

'Have any shoes?' he asks.
What size?
'9 and a half.'
I don't have any today.
He shows me his right foot. The sole and heel are gone from his construction boots.
'Sole-less. Like me.' he says.

'Hardly without soul.' I say and then he beams this smile no mask can hide.

It has been pouring rain. Guys out here with sneakers have wet feet. They can't wait to get dry socks.
A new book for The Reader. Coffee cake. Coffee cards.
'Hey, you don't smoke but you got a light?'
I am grateful I do.
It is breezy. I cup my hands around the hesitant flame of an old lighter I found in my emergency gear. He leans in to light his cigarette. The cigarette trembles in his mouth. I notice he keeps his hands in his pocket for the most part and when he grasps the cigarette between two fingers they are shaking too.

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I am soleless.' he said.

To those of you I know out here who have struggled with their fatherdom...

 
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To those of you I know out here who have struggled with their fatherdom. Who have not been present to their children due to substance abuse, mental health issues, because sometimes you were initially broken by your own father...who was likely broken. Or had no father. Or no model for what it might be to be a man you now want to be. A lineage of broken hearts. Cheers to those I know out here who have been able to rekindle relationships with their children and those reshaping what it is to be a fathers child. Who have rebuilt relationships as you rebuild who you are and what you can be to others. Prayers to you who want to leave a legacy for your children, the children who have dismissed you or will not recognize you, so hurt are they. Keep. Going. I pray you continue your work on yourselves, the greatest gift you can offer your child ...and us. We see you and hold you in our hearts. And for those that have been hurt by your father, in all the ways humans hurt vulnerable humans, I open my heart to that pain and pray for you, a life in love. Regardless. 

I stopped on the exit ramp. Emergency lights on. I never once thought about the dangers...

 
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I stopped on the exit ramp. Emergency lights on. I never once thought about the dangers if my skin were dark. Or if I were a young man in a hoodie doing the same damn thing. That that would totally change the equation. I jump out and photograph and jump back into my white car. Into my white privilege.

He is sitting amongst his stuff. A worn out shopping bag. A folding camp chair. A backpack...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

He is sitting amongst his stuff. A worn out shopping bag. A folding camp chair. A backpack slipping off his shoulders. Hood up and head down.
He waits for others to get their coffee cards. Their socks. And then he hands this to me.
'A gift for you.' he says without fanfare. Without the other guys seeing it. They have since left.
'For you.' which I translate here as to 'us'. To Dear Anonymous.

I believe, but I am in no way certain, this is a statuette of the Hindi Goddess Durga, also incarnated as Kali, Bhagvati, Ambika...and more. She is known as the embodiment of feminine and creative energy. The protective mother of the universe. Multi limbed, (eight arms) she is prepared to do battle from any direction. And yet she sits quietly in lotus position. Two of her hands, palm pressing to palm in front of her heart. If there are folks more intimately familiar with Hindi or maybe Tibetan Buddhist iconography I'd love your clarification.

He seems to be unaware of any story at all. He simply bought it 'off a homeless person', he tells me. To offer as a gift. And so like the streets, she is broken in many places. Hands and fingers missing. But still she persists. Doing what she can even with many of her weapons missing.

I imagine him, he who really struggles to put a card in his pocket, who repeatedly fumbles placing socks in his backpack, he who can barely find his own pocket to put the wrapped coffeecake in....imagine him carrying this porcelain goddess with him on the streets. He who is challenged to hang onto that chair. That bag. His mind some days.
I simply cannot imagine how he has managed this.
With great humility I accept it from him. For all of us. Him included.
All of us out trying to protect the universe with a calm heart and broken fingers and missing parts.
Totally humbled.