Every year after Thanksgiving, Richard packed up all his things -- the clothes fit in the one plastic bag, the utensils and the photographs in the other -- and walked four blocks from the underpass to the Baptist church. He did it early in the morning while the sun was still hiding under its blanket of clouds, that way no one but the stars and the moon would see him. And those guys had always been his friends, his secret-keepers, his most trusted comrades.
The Baptist church had a young minister whose enthusiasm had led him to build by hand a manger for the nativity scene. This set was collapsible, and annually the congregation helped him pull it out from the adjacent garage, set it up on the front corner of the lot, and fill it with straw, giant figures of Mary and Joseph and the wisemen, and various farm animals. They left the baby Jesus out, because they thought it was sacrilege to imitate his form.
Richard was just fine with that. It left him someplace high and dry to store his things.
So with all his worldly possessions hidden under baby Jesus's blanket, he wrapped him self in straw and the shawl from Mary's shoulders, and he slept in the back of the manger. He could usually sneak in around midnight and stay until just before daybreak. The few cars that went by at night never saw him in the dark, not behind all those fake idols.
This was his home, more than anywhere else in the world. He only got it for a month or so each year, but that was better than nothing, he reckoned. Better than all the people who didn't have homes no time of year.
No comments:
Post a Comment