I saw a man walking in a way that said he was a bastard but didn’t much care. I thought to describe him as happy. He may be a saint.
Earlier, without being noticed, I had watched him: He was engaged, listening and talking to a toothless man selling the "Edmonton Street News." He used reckless words—words the toothless man knew. Words that careened along the alley and caromed off lampposts and brick walls. Words that ran through wet concrete and broke through barricades. He hated bloodless refinement, obviously. But was, himself, polite and kind to the ragged man selling vagabond news.
What does mercy look like when it finally arrives without condescension?
We’ve bought some time in this cracked universe. And the sting you feel in the middle of night, is not so different from what the man selling the "Edmonton Street News" feels.
Truth at bottom is this: we’d sooner endure abandonment than suffer a supercilious hand. Truth is, many forms of philanthropy breed loneliness. Truth is, we are carried great distances by simply knowing that someone cares if we live or die.
Nice piece. Reminds me of a Dylan lyric: “And even if the flesh falls off of my face,
I know someone will be there to care.”
Thanks Michael, and Dylan’s lyric…perfect icing, cake too.
touching and thought-provoking, Stephen
Prompted a response blog post of my own. You always make me think. You help inform that thinking. Grateful.
Thank you for kind words Susan.
Joyce, thank you, and thank you for your own insighful thoughts.