HUNGRYThe man sitting in this doorway gets to this point by 1:30 every day. He sits for a bit before continuing his pleading for food.  I mean for you to understand this sound: pleading from a hunger that echoes inside of him, amplifying his desperation.

I do not know where he starts, but his pace is somewhere between leaden and plodding.  I have seen him a block up, as early as noon, trying to get across the monstrous expressway that is Ninos Heroes.

Some days I give him an apple or some grapes.  He cannot see well, so I put it in his hand while naming what it is.

The other day Mari caught me heading out the door with two hardboiled eggs and a banana.  I gave them to the man, describing the offering: un platano y dos huevos duros/cocidos.

The man, bewildered by the cold eggs in his hand, thought maybe this was a trick, that someone wanted to see him get egg all over himself.  He asked, if they  are they are hard-boiled, why are they cold.  I promised they’d just been in the refrigerator.

When I scrambled back in the door to enjoy my own lunch, Mari asked what I did with the food.  I told her I was sharing with the man who walks by every day.  She exclaimed, “Oh, that poor man; isn’t he someone’s grandfather? Shouldn’t someone be taking care of him?”

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