Man on the Sidewalk

Why were you sitting on the sidewalk? Were you tired, hurt, hungry? Why did you sit there as people walked by? People who either glanced at you and quickly looked away, or people who pointedly refused to look in your direction. And you sat there. You’d say hello as people went by. Some responded, but most didn’t. Occasionally you’d ask for some money, but not often.


As I waited for my food—enough for you and me both—I stopped watching you and started watching the faces of the people with whom you interacted. Most ignored you and went on their way. A few looked repulsed. None looked sympathetic.

And still I watched. You were just sitting there, saying hello. Someone must have complained. You couldn’t have been there very long. Here they came—one on foot, the other on a scooter. You’ve got to leave. I’m sure that’s what they told you. No other choice. You are sitting in front of a restaurant. Don’t you know you’re making people feel guilty? No, that wasn’t it. Surely we don’t make people go away just so we don’t have to feel bad about ignoring them.

I got my food and left—enough for both of us, but shared with no one. I looked for you. I’m not altruistic. I walked right by you and into the restaurant. Just like so many others, I didn’t take the time. Would I have spoken if I found you? I tell myself I would have, but I didn’t as I first walked by.

Why were you sitting on the sidewalk? You looked young—younger than me. Why did you sit there, just saying hello? Were you hungry? Did you need a place to rest? Were you lost? Were you afraid? Angry? Thirsty? Or were you just broken—broken like me but not like me?

And then you were gone.