I saw her there again, wear­ing the same clothes, with her life in two new gro­cery bags. On the same night of another face­less week, except the tem­per­a­ture dropped, and I was stand­ing out­side in my bomber jacket, look­ing in. This time, she was sit­ting upright and silent, unmov­ing, hat draped over her eyes.

Crashing inside, I thought.

Her hands were cracked and dark from expo­sure. How I wanted to reach out, and straighten the tan­gled skein of her black hair. But what could I do?

God isn’t here anymore.