The days are short, but they lengthen. We’ll hardly know ourselves by September. There’s just enough time to visit the city for an appointment, till the chill of evening slides forward. In the morning, passing someone muffled and blanketed, the face entirely wrapped in knitted scarves, seated on the ground at the hospital corner. The only movement one finger on each mittened hand, scratching behind one ear of each tiny Jack Russell Terrier, bright eyes peeking from beneath one elbow on each side. Two small dogs, two hands, one human face, covered against the cold. Whether chemically, socially, or financially abandoned, so it seems.
Does houseless mean homeless? Can you be homeless in a house? Can you be at home outside a house? Who decides?
There was no appeal for money here. No bowl or basket, no looking up and no voice. No appeal for anything at all. A wrappedness of everything except the four bright eyes, like seraphim maybe. Perhaps the gift of warmth for the two little creatures, a gift that can still be given when other things have been taken...somehow.
What does August ask of us? “The Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.” (Luke 9:58)
