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  • Writer's pictureSkylar Mitchell

The Little Things


A homeless man walks along the median.

I sit in my car and watch him,

praying he does not approach me.

25 dollars and 48 cents sit in my checking account.

I have nothing to give.

I have only pity - for others and myself - but nobody wants that.

Nobody welcomes the burden I carry.

The man holds a sign.

He’s a veteran. Anything helps. God bless.

I watch his eyes skip from car to car, returning the cold shoulders he’s receiving.

His eyes meet mine, and I don't know why,

but I smile.

And he smiles back,

with two gaps in his teeth.

Two gaps like me.

And I feel a wave of something wash over me.

I want to give that man all 25 dollars and 48 cent from my checking account

because he smiled at me,

and it's been so long since the last time that happened.

He starts to walk towards me,

as I’m digging through my bag for cash, or change,

or anything.

but the stoplight ahead of me turns green,

and I have to go.

I wave to him,

and he raises a brown hand in return.

I cry until I get home,

because he was the nicest man I've ever met.

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