Of Eyebrows and Blue Shirts

I pulled up to near the shelter, my car filled with a couple of blankets, socks, snacks, and a few gently used clothes, all waiting for new owners. It’s my favorite kind of delivery, the type that says, “Hey, you matter.”

As I hopped out, a man stepped forward, his blue-plaid shirt flapping in the breeze like a flag of friendliness. He looked every bit the part—white T-shirt peeking through, jeans hanging just right, back curved from years I’ll never know, and eyebrows that waved at me, long overdue for a trim.

He was in his seventies, I think, but honestly, when you live outside on the street, age is just a number—and sometimes, just a guess.