Wrapped loosely in his dirty, green blanket, the kind that someone might have purchased years before from an army surplus store (and now worn way too thin for this chilly February morning), the man looked at me – his eyes engaging mine – and we spoke.
Actually, that’s not true.
Not at all.
Only he spoke. And just for a second at that.
I was too busy pretending not to notice whether he was addressing his pleas towards me, or to no one in particular.
I know which I had hoped.
It didn’t really matter, though. No one in particular responded.
But those eyes.
Brown eyes that were now red. Eyes that were swollen, and unfocused, even mournful.
Eyes that finally clued me in on something that I had once known but long ago repressed.
A man, even one in his muted desperation, is not without moments of forgiveness and compassion and dignity.
And this he told me as I walked by, instinctively unmoved in that very moment.
A moment in which the measure of two men had been taken.
And only one of us had failed to make the cut.
Image Credit: Pixabay
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