Willis

“May I take your photo?”

I wait a few seconds, worrying what the response will be. He’s rustling around a bit as he digs his hand out from beneath mounds of clothing, including a puffy winter coat underneath a puffy winter vest. He waves with fingers that don’t uncurl and looks me in the eye.

It is 80 degrees and about 1300% humidity.

“Would you like a granola bar or can I get you breakfast?”

“No thank you, I’m good.”

“Can I get you anything? Do you need anything?”

“No thank you. I’m fine.”

I don’t know anything about Willis. I don’t know why he’s homeless or why he wears a winter vest on top of a winter coat on top of a sweatshirt when it’s hot as balls out. But I know he’s a human and he deserves to be seen as one. I’m hoping by, at the very least, asking Willis’ name and making his portrait, even if he didn’t want any other kind of help from me, he knows that someone saw him today.

“I hope to see you again soon, Willis.”

“Ok, good.”

• • •