Vulnerable, Yet Hard
Vulnerable, Yet Hard There he was: toothless with a grubby yet heavy duty mountaineering backpack by his side, like always. Yes, I am aware that this description reigns in contradictions, but that's my impression of him–vulnerable yet hard. I don't know how I knew he was toothless. Maybe it was the hallows of his cheeks. They were haloed by a camouflage hat atop a mop of silver hair. His skin was a wrinkled reflection of his clothes–a topography of time, weather, and living. I assumed he slept there, on the ledge under the display window of a store no longer there. Swirls of gray left the windows on one side to interpretation. The other was locked under a rolling shutter, shutting out passers-by from what was inside. The man's eyes–when I dared to meet them–were pinched with pain and defensiveness. I wonder how long he had lived on the street to make them so acute. I see him on my way to Spanish class twice a week, but today I took the boardwalk the...