Originally published June 2017
The next day Mr. D* is in class early as usual, looking quite good, almost like he's relieved to have been unburdened. He tells me about where he used to cook, and I know I definitely ate there. Then the conversation goes this way and that way and we are discussing the hospital.
The next day Mr. D* is in class early as usual, looking quite good, almost like he's relieved to have been unburdened. He tells me about where he used to cook, and I know I definitely ate there. Then the conversation goes this way and that way and we are discussing the hospital.
They treat you different when they know you're homeless, he tells me.
They do?
Yes. They don't trust you, like being homeless makes you a criminal.
They don't see you.
No, they don't. Like if they ignore you you'll go away and not be their problem.
I see you, I tell him. I'm thankful you're here.
Then I get the idea to ask him if he will write some recipes for me to use to cook for the veterans and his face lit up like nothing I had seen from him in three long weeks of summer school.
He starts talking about making pastry and different cuts of meat and I get this idea that we could maybe put together some sort of cookbook and he says YES.
I ask him to write about himself too and he says YES.
At the end of lecture that day, I help Mr. D* put his notebook into his backpack and I can't help but notice a brown bag. She brought me breakfast, he says, and smiles at the nice girl in the front row. She sees him too. She waves at him as he leaves and goes back to writing her essay.
(continued)
