Honestly in Pieces

Beside my motorcycle this morning was a man sleeping. Between the two cars, under the light. My boots make a distinct clomp when they move, and this woke him as I approached. He had on dirty layers of old clothes, anything he could to stay warm. On his feet were some beaten-up rollerblades and on his neck and arm were long strips of road rash. Probably from the rollerblades. He had in his hands a cigarette that he had been rolling when he fell asleep. As he stirred he said to me, mumbling and ashamed, "Sorry 'bout that."

I didn't know how to reply. I wondered who he was, why he was sleeping here, if he was hungry. I wanted to know so much about him - like if he was okay - but the entire time I was there, all I said to this man was, "I'm not too concerned."

Well that was a big lie, wasn't it? I meant it in a different way, of course, the best possible way for those words to sound. But they were just the wrong words to use.

I drove away empathetic, but it didn't last. On three separate occasions in my life, I extended help to three separate individuals; each time, I immediately regretted it.

But this man today was just truly down on his luck, right?

When I got home from work, I found syringes that he'd left behind. Until that moment, I felt badly for my actions that morning. Like maybe he just needed a few bucks to get himself together. Now I wonder if anyone's honestly in pieces and fighting to fix themselves.