from the rag-bag

found this in my old documents... i wrote it years ago, just dragged it up now. not sure if it's any good. we'll see. 

Food for the soul.

It’s freezing out. The cruel wind whips and stings my face as I walk down the street.  On the corner, there is a man, shabbily dressed in a threadbare wool jumper and torn jeans, unshaven, no coat or scarf or anything. He is standing behind a cart that is selling hot donuts to passers-by, yet he looks as though he hasn’t eaten in days. His face is gaunt and there is a sad, lonely look in his eyes that makes me feel like crying. His eyes seem to implore me as I approach, so I stop and buy a donut, handing him some change from my wallet. He murmurs a thank you and drops the money into a tin, which I notice for the first time is labeled with a hand-made sign scribbled on some scrap paper, which reads ‘For Jessie’. The man notices me looking and he reaches into his back pocket and takes out a slightly creased, dog-eared photo, which he shows to me. The pale little face of a tiny girl, no older than four, stares out from the photograph. She has thin dark hair and the saddest eyes I have ever seen. I look up at the man and am surprised that I have to swallow a lump in my throat before speaking. “Is she your daughter?” the man nods. “She’s got leukemia.” Tears immediately spring to my eyes. “I’m so sorry”, I whisper, my heart breaking. He gives me a grim smile. “Thanks. I wish I could do more to help her. My wife threw me out a year ago, a couple months after Jessie got sick, because I was a bit of a mess. I drank too much, and she didn’t think that was a healthy environment for a sick daughter to be in. shortly after that, I got fired from my job, and because I dropped out of high school, I couldn’t get another one. So I took this up, to try and make a living, and I send as much money as I can to my wife each week to help Jessie get better. Towards paying for medical stuff, food, whatever. I just want to be a good father.” At this point, the man chokes up and can’t go on, and I’m about to break down sobbing. I suppose he can tell, because he reaches out and pats me on the arm. “I don’t know why I told you that. I guess you look like the type of person who is easy to talk to.” I look up into the man’s eyes, which I see now are filled with kindness, shadowed with all the grief and hardship life has thrown at him. “It’s okay,” is all I can manage to say, and then I reach into my wallet again and take out two fifty dollar notes, which I slip into the tin before the man can do anything. “For Jessie.” I say, before turning and walking away.

disclaimer: i can't even remember if it was me who wrote this. i'm fairly sure i did, but if i didn't, sorry.