Grace on the Curb of Life

She was shuffling along, dragging a plastic bag that had been through too many rainstorms. A blanket—faded and frayed—hung off her shoulder like a burden she’d stopped trying to adjust. Her tennis shoes were the kind that had known years, not miles. And her face… well, wore the weight of regret like a second skin.

I didn’t know her name. But I knew pain when I saw it. She soon sat on a curb at the next corner, and I asked if I could sit with her. With a half-hearted shrug, she said, “Suit yourself. It’s not like I own the curb.”

I smiled gently and replied, “The concrete’s softer when you’re not sitting on it alone.”