On those days she doesn’t take her bike, I walk Amynah to the tram station in the morning. Our route takes us through a park-like area, where some older homeless guys tend to congregate.
On our way to there this morning, we passed one I’ve noticed before, sitting on a bench, immobile, eyes closed, and his hand over his heart. I wasn’t sure that he was ok, and I know French people have a lousy record of looking out for strangers, so on my way back home I resolved to ask him if he needed help.
Practicing the French phrases for “do you need help?” in my head, I drew nearer to his station on the bench. As I drew near, I saw that his arm had moved, and his eyes seemed to be open. Propped up against bag of worldly possessions was an old picture frame, the glass cracked and the metal dented and worn; it was made for a drawing room table, not the ravages of life on the streets. He was gazing, prayerfully, at an old photograph,of a woman dressed for a party, hosted by friends presumably long forgotten, smiling back at him from happier times.
It broke my heart.
*I have much to catch up on, blogging-wise, but I had to get that out of my system.