Some time had passed since I last visited the homeless man.

After all, it isn’t on my list of things to do. If I’m honest, I intentionally left it off. Truly, I left everything off, preferring instead to fall back into my peaceful winter slumber.

Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. But in my case it isn’t ignorance, it’s willful neglect. Of my most precious resource – Now.

Yet… he continued to call to me from some distance space. Not audibly, mind you, just a slight nagging back in the far reachings of my subconscious. A thing I know, deep down, I need to address but can’t or won’t force myself to wake up and face.

“Get your food from someone else.” I mutter pulling the covers over my head and turning my back to the nothingness in front of me. Age had calloused my heart and moved me to the realm of no longer caring. Crazy lady talks to herself.

Yes, I do please and thank you.

Soon. Perhaps very soon. You will too.

My stomach growled. The irony of my voiced inner expression to a man that was nowhere near at the moment was not lost on me. “Old man, why are you always right?” I complain to the wall I now face, for it isn’t him who is hungry – it is me. Starving. Too long I have lingered in this in-between world.

‘I was forced into this isolation.’ I remind the molecules around me.

Had I ever really fed the man? I reflect.

True, I had offered him food so many times I lost count. In my mind, his very life and presence was sustained by my continual generous offerings. A hamburger from McDonalds, a couple of slices of pizza from Papa Johns, and even bits of salmon with horseradish mashed potatoes. Leftovers from the previous evenings delectable dinner at an upscale restaurant. Well… not anymore, not lately anyway.

Me? Myself? I never eat leftovers. I prefer my food fresh.

He probably only eats like this in his wildest imaginations! The smug observation creeps into my thoughts as I further distance his reality from mine. I am secretly proud to be able to bring him something so exotic. A precious rare taste of the good life. The good life I have worked so hard at cultivating.

These offering are few and far between, though. Life is complicated and busy, leaving little opportunity to enjoy the finer things.

I chuckle to myself. Do I have life completely wrong? What is finer than fresh air, beautiful flowers… nature?

I shudder from remembering.

Never once had he eaten what I offered. At least not to my knowledge, not in my direct experience. Instead, he accepted my offerings graciously – always, always with a thank you and a genuine, warm smile. Then, he set them to the side, leaving them untouched.

I assume that he is polite, preferring to eat after I leave.

What if he doesn’t? What if he, like me, leaves it all untouched?

Always, always he offers me something in return. A small, piping hot, brown paper bag. The type of bag you get from a soup line at the local homeless shelter. Tomorrow’s lunch.

“Comfort food” he says as he hands me the bag, pausing to gently squeeze my arm before letting go. “Warms the heart and soothes the soul…” He smiles, eyes twinkling.

If only…

I too accept his offerings graciously – always, always with a thank you and a genuine warm smile. Only to discard them in the nearest trash receptacle when I am out of his line of sight.

Often doing so with an upturned nose and a hint of disgust, or sometimes, if I am in a depressed sort of mood, with a touch of sadness and concern. Did he just give me tomorrow’s lunch? This thought annoys me. Now, I will have to make another trip to bring him food.

Skeptically, I look at the bag, holding it out in front of me to create as much distance between my comfortable life and this – the life that this bag represents – as possible. The plaque.

As if I would eat this garbage. I think to myself. But my polite southern upbringing does not allow me to refuse. Obligation forces me to take what I am given but it doesn’t force me to eat it. So I don’t. And besides, where did it come from? Where had it been? Who handled it?

I toss the bag out, giving it no other thought.

However, I do genuinely appreciate the fact that though it seems he has nothing, he always has something to give.

It is the heat, or the memory of it, that finally gets my attention. Why did I never notice it before? Why had I not bothered to open the bag, if not to at least discover what he thought comfort was? Then perhaps offer him the like, in turn.

Humbled, I pause. How much more different would my life be today if I were less arrogant and perhaps a little more curious?

I would willingly go back and open every single bag, if I could.

Only I can’t.

I can only go forward.

Yet still… I hesitate.

Even now, I refuse to seek him out and accept his nourishment. He is never too far. All I need do is put Him on my list of things to do. Is it guilt? Shame? Embarrassment? All of the above?

Maybe I don’t want to go to him and accept what he has to offer because ultimately I know if I do… I will change.

And change is the thing I fear the most.