Zoe Sandvig is a guest writer. She previously wrote a piece for CGO about "What My Degree Didn't Teach Me," on September 1, 2006. Zoe is a writer for Prison Fellowship.
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My McDonald’s gift certificate burned a hole in my purse.
I brushed passed another cup-holding, money-jingling,
bundled figure in
The gift certificate grew hotter with each step further from the hooded figure and each step closer to my comfortable residence at one of the city’s most prestigious hotels.
Later that afternoon, I went for another stroll. This time,
I took a different route back to hotel. It didn’t matter. He was still waiting
for me. This time he was younger, paler, and sitting, rather than standing, on
the curb. I couldn’t see his eyes, but the cup was the same—maybe less full.
I reached the curb. No,
You said. Turn around and go back. I’m
hungry. I’m cold. Can’t you tell? Turn around and meet me.
I left my friends at the curb and came to Your side. You were sitting cross-legged, a blanket strewn across Your shivering shoulders. Without giving myself time to change my mind, I pulled the coupons from my scalding purse, rolled it into a ball, and hastily shoved it into Your plastic cup. “Thank you very . . .”
But I was already gone. Why hadn’t I stayed to talk with You? To look You in the eyes and ask You your name.
It’s alright, You told me. Thank you for acknowledging me.
So, I’ve met you. I had met You once. Good. I had no more coupons shooting invisible flames through my purse. I had met You and I could move on.
The next evening, I left my hotel again. This time, I headed in another direction. I strode briskly down the wind-swept avenue, joyful for a carefree evening in the big city.
But, there, in yet another bundled figure darkened by the night shadows, I saw You again. But, this time, You didn’t move. You lay still under a rough blanket. I met You once, I thought. Not again.
Yes, again, You
replied. You may have met Me once, but this
time, I want to meet you.
I had no gift certificates left, but I did have some money
and a booklet. As I stared at the objects, I remembered they belonged to You
anyway.
I turned again—this time with joy and excitement—to return them to You.
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