It was the hobo story.
Reaching deep into my own grandmother’s history of being a safe place for hobos that traveled by their house. Cold water slapping me awake to how far we have come from being open to strangers and sharing our food. Ice cubes is more like it…
Then tears. They sneak back up now as I read Wells and feel seen by her. By you. Tenderness somehow all about me. And not.
Somehow this counts for something; for the people we tell to keep on moving. I’m not sure how but it does. I have to believe that it does somehow or we all are lost.
And we are not.
The point is simply this: how tender can we bear to be? What good manners can we show as we welcome ourselves and others into our hearts?-Rebecca Wells