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 there and passed by his haunt on my way back two hours later. How many hours does he spend there each day, staring at pedestrians focused on the world ahead? Does he ever get up? Does he ever move?

Imagine living on the same stoop day in and day out, doing nothing but expecting, hoping, and feeling scared. Sigh. I guess that's already a lot.


Image: <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/stocksnap-894430/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=2586498">StockSnap</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com//?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=2586498">Pixabay</a>


Text: Kristen Mastromarchi

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