Ansel: It's Been a Hard Few Days

Sam wouldn't eat his burger. When I asked him why he said, 'I can't eat this and know he's hungry.'

A few blocks back we'd met Ansel.

On the last night of spring break we went for a walk downtown. Resting against a railing was a dark man with bright eyes and a smooth gravel in his voice. 'Could you help me?' he asked. 'It's been a hard few days.'

Tony stopped to talk to him, while the kids and I listened to his story. Jamaican, he is, soft-spoken. He lost his home as winter began. In the few months since he's learned when to hop the train so he can ride and sleep, he's learned where to rest, away from the blustering wind, where to get help with something to eat. Still, homeless in cold and hungry, he has the inclination to chat and shake hands. He does not hurl rocks at the smiling, glittery people who blush past him from inside Macy's on State. I wonder if I'd be so kind.

We got him a burger and walked back so Sam could stop to give it to him and tell him he wouldn't forget. 'Ansel's my name,' he reminded us.

It's been a hard few days for me these past two weeks. Some days I don't know where it's going to come from, what I need because I'm wearing down, honestly. Wearing. Down.

More than feeling a little lost and tired I've found myself increasingly unwilling to keep trying, to keep battling when what I'd rather do is sit in a chair and read a book.

I hear the good wishes for might and courage. They are good but tire repairs with rest and a cup of hot soup; there is none.

Then I am spoilt and silly and I know it.

And I am reminded of Ansel.