The Red Door

I shut down my computer, put on the voice mail, collect my bags of possessions and walk to my car. Ah, the preparation of home time. Home to my bedroom of shabby chic and walk in wardrobe, and comfort and money. To my warm bed in winter, cool in summer and yummy every afternoon bathing in the sun.



But what I over look as I walk to my car at 5:01 (and not a minute later) is the pillows and blankets hidden in the trees. Disguised so skillfully, with the art and precision of someone who does this daily.



At night, the darkness engulfs the city and the shadows are no longer shadows from the light. They are our realities. The truth of our city and what we have ignored as a society and what we continue to perceive as the fault of the victim, rather than a problem with a basic solution.



Every evening they come and gather their blankets and pillows, with relief for a dry day creased on their foreheads. Outside of my office, beyond those red doors, on our doorstep sleeps a person or two, every night. Literally on. my. doorstep.


When you chose love, you give up the right to be right.