His hand was rough and hard as rock; the hand of one who had done hard living. Not the hand of someone faking it, nor that of a leech, lazy man, or deadbeat. This was the hand of a man. How do I know? Because, when I approached him with my hand, holding four quarters outstretched, I looked into his eyes. Steel blue eyes, stared at me. Beautiful eyes peering out behind unwelcome dirt and straggly bangs. Like beams of light piercing through a dark forest, searching for a way home; his eyes found mine, with gratitude. My hand gently placed four quarters in his. His hand, warm, just drawn from a soiled pullover, slid under mine, human skin to human skin. In a brief moment, where nerves send communication to the brain; I understood his touch. He was no non-person sitting under a freeway pass, where gum and spit and old coffee and cigarette butts collect. He was a man, risen to his feet, slowly, hope drawn back into his face briefly. A man, with swollen feet, hunched back, straggly hair, steel eyes, and a warm rough, street-hardened hand; his hand.
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January 2014
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