Faith & Roses

Icy rain pinging the windows. Dark. Glad to be inside; dry and warm.

I drift off and I begin to pray for my brothers and sisters who are crouching in doorways; cardboard box shelters beginning to bend and leak; walking and sleeping in shoes that don’t fit; stomachs rumbling; dampness drawing the odors from their bodies and clothes. Looking for a place to toilet; not a dime in their pocket or bags — not one slim dime. Trapped in situations: addiction, mental illness, sickness, and failings; untethered, unwanted, and unchecked. Right here, right now. Around the corner. A block away. In parking lots; on sidewalks; subway stations. Everywhere and everywhere, again and again.

Do we dare to think we know or understand how someone gets to this place? Inside a box, under an eave. Do we indulge in worn litanies used to soothe ourselves; to give some tint to a picture so bleak that our eyes can barely look upon it. “Must be: drugs; craziness; crime; poor choices; consequences.”

Somehow, some way we search for a connection between what we witness; what we step over and around; what we dare not meet with our eyes. Something, anything, to keep us comfortable with turning away…

Icy rain pinging the windows. . . Glad to be inside; dry and warm.