I saw an old man sitting alone on the side of the street in Brooklyn.
He had gray hair and dark circles under his eyes.
He looked weak, as though God had only allowed him so much strength and he had used it already.
His shoes were old and worn. You could almost see his fragile toes through the soles.
His attire consisted of a pair of raggedy blue jeans and an old blue plaid flannel shirt that was missing two buttons.
Though sitting on the cold concrete in the blistering winds of the city, he seemed to smile.
His face seemed to glow with a simple happiness, a thing I rarely see.
He looked as if he was in a complete state of serenity and peace.
Others, who would walk by, just spat upon him as if he were one with the ground.
They cursed at him and called him a worthless bum.
They said he was trash and could serve no purpose. He was a waste of space.
I chose to think otherwise. After all, he was just a tired old man resting on the side of the street.
Who were they judge, lest they should also be judged.
I wished to help him, to take him in from the cold and feed him.
But as I went to awake this simple old man I realized…. he was dead.