'Julia?' by Patricia Bender

 

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.