The Mad Minstrel

For the last year or so I’ve been sharing my lunch with a man named Adam. On my way to work I’ll stop at the corner where he usually sleeps, on a metal grate under a tree. It’s dark, quiet, and one of the driest places he can find (we live in Seattle after all).

I try and mix it up, sharing fruit and sandwiches, but if I’m being honest- my lunches mostly consist of Red Bulls and leftover pizza- so most days I’ll just give him a dollar. He’s a nice man, and after a year of these exchanges he’s still pretty shy. In fact, the only things I know about him are his name and that he loves to read.

Most nights he can be seen leaning into the glow of a nearby street lamp, to light the words of his latest adventure, or sleeping on his grate clutching the book like it’s his dearest friend, though I suppose it might be. Maybe that’s what drew me to him in the first place, different as we may be, we share the same friends, live the same adventures, and find joy and solace in the places between the pages.

Except…

I haven’t seen Adam in a few months, it’s growing colder, and the snow is coming. I still look under the tree, every day, just hoping to see that he’s alright. But if I never see him again, I hope he found his way home, wherever that may be.

Image by Kasun Chamara from Pixabay