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.