Betty

I met you, and you asked for money. I'm not the sort of citizen to fall for that. I offered lunch, and you showed me your ratty clothes and told me of the cold. I wasn't blind. I could see all of that and more. And I know all of the things I should do. I am practiced at looking out for myself. As you know, no one is going to do it for you.

But you knew what you needed and you knew I had the money to spare, relatively speaking at least. I gave you $7 and asked your name. Betty.

And then you hugged me.

And I don't really know what to do with that. Not because I was offended or even that surprised. Maybe a little surprised.

You didn't merely cut through my defenses. You stole them.

It has been two days, and I still haven't found them. I suppose you've taken them to line your coat and keep you warm. I can tell you right now, they don't keep the wind out.

Maybe I am better off without them.

Actually, I know I am. But it's hard to get used to the lightness that comes with vulnerability. It's hard to remember that I care about all the things I used to, but I haven't done as much caring as I have talking. And even the talking lately has been little, if that is any indication of the other.

I hope to see you again, Betty. I will look for you. And though I expect to find you, I know I never will. I'm still not one to believe that the world works that way. Still, all my love and prayers and thanks.