The friends I made in the shelter are dying off one by one.
Except for a handful, most of them are gone.
I haven’t yet learned to make new friends; poverty has a way of breaking through the shyness, I guess.
Yesterday, I saw three people I knew. Aged, missing teeth, some still on drugs, all seem to have lost hope of a normal life.
I can tell, by the way they look at me, that they wish that they had my life. As imperfect as it is. For just a day, they want a bed… and ordinary worries, and hope that they will make it.
I hope that they will make it, but it is one tough fight… to fight for your life and get off the streets.