The rain finally arrives, real Vancouver summer rain. It is cheque day but the wetness lulls the street into a quiet deserted place. I feel compassion rolling over me, so genuine, my heart opens uncontrollably and I know I am lucky. If I let it all go; it will all come back again. I will be alright.
He is afraid so I will not speak his name. He is simply F. Handsome, gentle, and standing against the edge of loss. Perhaps no one has ever told him that he is loved or that his presence in this world is valuable, that his history has yet been written. We spent the morning spreading a blanket of honesty between us . He is ashamed to tell me that he is living in a shelter, it is as if he believes poverty and homelessness is somehow a shameful act. I am worried that he will end up in the alley, dead eyed, and untrustworthy. I make him promise that he will stay away from the crack, that I can not bare to see him fall. I tell him he is too gentle, and too valuable, these streets are a dangerous place and the softness will kill us both.