I saw an old man in the city the other day. His face carved to gauntness, his grey beard long and unkempt but full face with watered down sky eyes staring out and no mouth I could see but an aquilined nose that was sharp red at its tip from the cold. One leg in baggied colorless dark trousers was folded under him for comfort but I saw a well-worn pointed-toe boot sticking out from behind. The other, half empty and tied at the knee, splayed out and shoeless, footless onto the sidewalk. By his side, a china mug, pink delicate flowers and a tarnished ring of silver around the rim held a few coins, a few dollar bills. I don’t remember his coat, and he wore no hat on the shoulder-length grey waves of his hair. It stood around his head like an angry sea, a dim tangled cloud that the wind barely moved. It was the first week of the sudden winter that comes in November, and my first day on the new job.
I slowed as I approached him and stopped when he met my eyes with his own. A shiver ran through me and I said It’s a cold one today while I opened my purse and sought something to offer while at the same time avoiding his look. I pulled out a dollar, then thought and pulled out another, folded them together and reached down to drop them into the large china mug. Straightening up I looked back to his face. He was glaring and I hurried away.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology