minutes before the pancakes get there, which is a ploy to get another glass added to the bill. I have to push the glass of milk away so Ezra stops drinking the milk because I literally don’t have enough to pay for anything else. The waitress might be getting shorted on the tip as it is.
I manage to grab two bites of pancakes, once using the “how does it taste?” line. And then at the end of the meal when he looks full I tell him I’ll help him because we’re in a hurry. Being homeless like retirement means hurrying is something you don’t have to do. I guess if I were rich and had no financial worries I would find this idyllic, but know I long to be busy. I hate sitting around with no purpose.
We sleep in a church parking lot Sunday night. When the sun comes up, I’ve managed to park so the round yellow ball is right at the intersection of the cross. I try to find some comfort and some meaning in life as the shadow hits our van window. But I can’t see God in this picture of my family. It’s Monday morning and we begin the week again at the soup kitchen on F street; hoping for a change, hoping for a break in the routine.
The End.