You’ve seen her before. You cross the street to avoid her. You fix your gaze straight ahead, looking away, ignoring her face, avoiding eye contact like she’s some garbage on the sidewalk. You’re not a bad person, but you think that by making eye contact, or talking to her, you have to admit she’s there and you might have an underlying human need to care. It’s a lot easier to close your eyes and insulate your heart from her presence.
She’s one of the unlucky ones; a bundle of clothes sitting on the sidewalk, hoping for a glimmer of luck, begging for a quarter, a dollar, anything to help buy something warm to fight the cold in her bones when she’s sleeping under newspaper blankets.
No hope, no future, nowhere to call home.
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