I’ve known this homeless individual for more than a year now. He frequents my neighborhood library every day, all seasons. I sit at the computer next to him … hardly anyone else does, for obvious reasons. I never smell smoke or alcohol on him, though stale other smells are sometimes hard to tolerate. He carries all of his belongings in a large shopping bag. He is lucid and, his conversations have meaning. He tells me about his prior life, which, from my point of view, is not different from many living on the proverbial edge.  He, unfortunately,  has fallen over his edge and has no impetus to live again.

I was teary eyed a week ago, when I noticed he had started to carry his things in a supermarket cart.  In my attempt to approach at his level, I pulled him aside and offered him one of those nice pull bags that would hold all his things.  For the first time he snapped at me “No ma’am” he said.  “Why not”, I asked. “Ma’am, don’t go buying anything for me” he replied. “I already have the bag”,  I lied.

He walked off to his chair at the computer without saying another word.

I guess I don’t understand.

Olive Rose Steele is the author of : AND WHEN WE PRAY