As a young girl, I had visited New York City many times with my grandparents, and was in too much awe of the sights to notice anything but the hustle and bustle of the city. When I first moved to the city on my own and actually saw the number of homeless, I was shocked. Whenever the weather would turn bitter cold, I thought of these nameless, faceless souls and their struggle to keep warm. Many years after I first moved to the city, I noticed a man in a wheelchair who was on the same corner every day. I would see him each morning on my way to work, and eventually we began to exchange hellos. Over time, I would buy him a cup of coffee or cigarettes. He would share with me stories about his troubled youth. He was in a wheelchair because as a teen, he broke both of his legs while running away from the police. Even though he had done his time, he was still paying for his troubled youth as an adult. When I moved out of that neighborhood, I lost contact with the man on the corner. Continue reading →