The skies of San Francisco have suddenly opened up in a torrential downpour, enveloping everything in sight and washing away the tiny pinpoints of light that dot the city in the cold embrace of an inky darkness. Outside my window, as I sit here writing in the warm environs of my living room, is a park across which in a small space between its boundary and the house next to it resides a homeless person.
He’s usually covered in plastics, some sort of light, a number of cushions and scavenged items in a shopping cart that I can only presume offer some protection from the elements. I generally try not to be affected by the plight of the homeless and the poor in this city, thinking about and eventually letting go of how unlucky they have been in life to be in the situation they’re in now.
But tonight, I can’t help but feel bad about what he must feel, huddled in the small space without a roof, trying his best to protect himself from the increasingly wild rain.
I can’t imagine the events that brought him to this, but I just wish life had been fairer to him.