It was 37 degrees this morning. It was cold. Whine. What little blankets we had weren't warm enough. Whine. I reached over and turned on the heat. I looked at the clock. It was 5:05 in the morning. Whine. We hadn't gone to sleep until way after midnight. Less than 5 hours sleep for the fourth day in a row. Whine.
My back hurt, my feet were swollen, I ached from shivering. Whine. there was too much traffic that kept going by all night. Whine. The lights at this rest stop are too bright. Whine. I can't sleep unless it's dark. Whine.
I don't see the little pink buds bursting through the frost. I don't see the deer grazing in the meadow along side the river nearby. I only see my sorrows as they begin to overflow.
I am out of money before I am out of month. Whine. I have food, but not what I really like to have for breakfast. Whine. I miss my kitchen where I can brew a fresh pot of coffee. Whine. I miss the fragrance of freshly baked bread wafting from the oven. Whine.
I have a lot to do today. Guess I had better get going. I put on my shoes, unwrap myself from my cocoon of blankets and brave the cold. Whine. I grab my change of clothing and while dressing I think of the cereal and banana I will have instead of hot oatmeal and fresh fruit I want. Whine.
I rush. The sooner I get back to the car, the sooner I can get warm. It starts to drizzle. Whine. No wait, it's a mix of rain & snow. Oh this cannot be happening. Whine.
That's when I see him. Huddled in a corner, wearing a torn army jacket is a man. He is dirty, but I don't really see that. All I see is blue.
Piercing blue eyes that seem empty and sad. Blue lips, that conceal chattering teeth. Blue fingers that curl into a fist to pound on anything nearby to get the blood circulating again.
He has a sign, but he doesn't ask. Instead he smiles, nods, and goes back to his corner . I wonder how I can help. I have no money; no room in the van. I can feed him but I have so little to offer.
I give him a choice. "Egg salad sandwich would do me just fine. Thank you ma am."
I bring him his sandwich; a bag of trail mix, a dozen boiled eggs, peanut butter, bread, and breakfast bars. His eyes glisten as they fill with water. He hadn't eaten in three days. He was ever so grateful.
His hands are shaking so badly from the cold he cannot hold his sandwich. Quickly, I wrap our thickest blanket around him and kiss his cheek.
"Good luck sweetie and may God bless you." I turn quickly so he won't see the tears. "Dear God," I pray. "No more whine. I've had enough."
Through his own tears, I hear him cry out, "He already has ma am. He already has."
My back hurt, my feet were swollen, I ached from shivering. Whine. there was too much traffic that kept going by all night. Whine. The lights at this rest stop are too bright. Whine. I can't sleep unless it's dark. Whine.
I don't see the little pink buds bursting through the frost. I don't see the deer grazing in the meadow along side the river nearby. I only see my sorrows as they begin to overflow.
I am out of money before I am out of month. Whine. I have food, but not what I really like to have for breakfast. Whine. I miss my kitchen where I can brew a fresh pot of coffee. Whine. I miss the fragrance of freshly baked bread wafting from the oven. Whine.
I have a lot to do today. Guess I had better get going. I put on my shoes, unwrap myself from my cocoon of blankets and brave the cold. Whine. I grab my change of clothing and while dressing I think of the cereal and banana I will have instead of hot oatmeal and fresh fruit I want. Whine.
I rush. The sooner I get back to the car, the sooner I can get warm. It starts to drizzle. Whine. No wait, it's a mix of rain & snow. Oh this cannot be happening. Whine.
That's when I see him. Huddled in a corner, wearing a torn army jacket is a man. He is dirty, but I don't really see that. All I see is blue.
Piercing blue eyes that seem empty and sad. Blue lips, that conceal chattering teeth. Blue fingers that curl into a fist to pound on anything nearby to get the blood circulating again.
He has a sign, but he doesn't ask. Instead he smiles, nods, and goes back to his corner . I wonder how I can help. I have no money; no room in the van. I can feed him but I have so little to offer.
I give him a choice. "Egg salad sandwich would do me just fine. Thank you ma am."
I bring him his sandwich; a bag of trail mix, a dozen boiled eggs, peanut butter, bread, and breakfast bars. His eyes glisten as they fill with water. He hadn't eaten in three days. He was ever so grateful.
His hands are shaking so badly from the cold he cannot hold his sandwich. Quickly, I wrap our thickest blanket around him and kiss his cheek.
"Good luck sweetie and may God bless you." I turn quickly so he won't see the tears. "Dear God," I pray. "No more whine. I've had enough."
Through his own tears, I hear him cry out, "He already has ma am. He already has."
