The two weeks leading up to my birthday,
on my way to the BART station each night, I would pass
a homeless man sleeping on a sidewalk of Berkeley.
He was Caucasian and about my age.
He had long, ’dreadlock-matted’ hair, long unkempt beard,
and torn and tattered clothes. With his weathered skin,
he reminded me somewhat of Grizzly Adams.
His outstretched hands, wordlessly begging a quarter
was weathered, darkened, and calloused beyond belief.
His barely audible, hopeless, gentle, yet gruff voice said
“thank you”.
He also displayed some signs of mental illness.
As I passed by, I wondered about if he had family,
loved ones, or many people who cared about him,
and felt grateful for the people in my life.
As I headed to BART two nights before my birthday,
I heard somebody yelling and observed him wildly
flailing himself nonstop with his hands.
He was yelling (in his weakened, broken voice
and amidst his sobbing),
"you no good, worthless to anybody bum".
The next night, for the first time in weeks,
he was not at his usual spot of being
camped out on the street curb.
Along with feeling guilty for not ‘becoming involved’
the night before, my heart went out to him
wherever he disappeared to, along with being
filled with gratitude and love for my family,
friends, pets, and blessings.
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