Yet, today was the first day Frank and I were met with Sierra’s ram-shacked glove compartment and armrest. Of course this caught us both off guard. So much for living in a gated community.
A homeless man, woman, boy . . . girl: crack fiends and veterans alike . . . at every stoplight, every intersection. After the first winter I spent working in the frigid downtown harbor cold, I swear my heart sank the distance of the Bur Khalifa in Dubai, and has yet to rise again. The sad part, so much of the city—to no surprise—is so immune to seeing our Homeless that they do not even acknowledge the 14’esque year old boy bundled in a blanket in the old church doorway. The one with the giant floor-to-ceiling red doors, almost at the corner of Charles and Baltimore Street. No one notice the other boy with his head hung low as the light changes again with without a single care for his existence—and if they did they’ve made it their business not to show it.