He was a dusty-clean
warrior: ragtag clothing, a generous heart, a fierce temper. He would aid a
soul, cleanse his clothing, help him bathe, tend to him in his wheel chair, and
endure his epithets. An invisible soul, an avoided soul, a homeless soul. It
meant life to do meth, a heart with a ticker, legs infected with fungi. I’d
converse with him, he’d search my eyes, and respond to my spirit—to mirror me,
to mimic me, waiting on SSDI. He had plans—to get an apartment, to help a
friend, to get an operation—on both legs and his heart. When angered, he could
be a locomotive, a little frightening, eye-to-eye, negotiating, talking down a
hurricane. He’d face suppression, but never a stifled voice, filled with
wisdom, full of emotion. A gentle spirit, a giving soul, afflicted by poverty.
May he rest in paradise. May sunshine find his aura. He is remembered,
immortalized, made into a mystic aftermath.
