I once said I hope she
was buying food with the money I offered, and she snapped her hand back. Give
freely or don’t give, she told me, not unkindly. You’re right, I
said, and then she took the cash. She could be my cousin Julia. Her direct gaze
always strengthens a thread of hope I don’t want to break. It’s been so long, and her face is weathered several
lifetimes beyond what Julia’s would be. Isn’t it? We sometimes stand together
on a corner we both know — not talking, not touching. When we meet early Sunday
morning, the street loud with litter from the night’s goings on, I am made bold by the soft rain and offer to
share a thermos of tea and bread with rhubarb jam.
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