He shares a room outside with a dozen other guys
and the only roof he knows
is that sometimes starry sky
A tattered sleeping bag on a concrete slab is his bed
and it's too cold to talk tonight
so I just sit with him instead and think
How did I find myself in a better place?
I can't look down on the frown on the other guy's face
'Cause when I stoop down low, look him square in the eye
I got a funny feeling
I just might be dealin'
with the face of Christ
I found her gazing in admiration at the display towards the front of the store, which was no doubt what caused her to wander in through the door in the first place. As with every other customer at the place I worked at the time, I greeted her nonchalantly and watched for my first opportunity to engage from out of the corner of my eye.
None was necessary.
She made her way over to me and faced me directly. "I need some pants." She was poorly dressed and reeked of a smell like the upholstery of a smoker's old car.
I rubbed my figurative hands together and began to ramble off her options. Fit? Brand? Wash? Bottom opening? Let's start with size.
"I'm not sure," she stated. She turned around and peeled back the waist of her pants to reveal deep, lashing stretch marks that covered her body.
"O-ok.. um, have you seen our capris?"
"I can't wear capris." Her voice lowered. The old car smell got stronger as she leaned in. "I'm a stripper. I have cuts on my legs." She lifted the pant legs of her tattered jeans to reveal fresh cuts and scars that covered as far as my eyes could see. I stared in bewilderment. Nothing come out of my mouth for what seemed like awhile; my mind was too busy wondering how she got her scars and reminding my curiosity I probably didn't want to know.
I moved my gaze back to her eyes and forced myself not to judge her.
"I think you'll like these," I said, grabbing a full-length pair of jeans off the wall and snapping back to reality.
I set her up in a dressing room and treated her like any other customer. At one point I walked past her open door and saw a man (who I like to suppose was with her) smacking her butt as she propped it into the air while holding on to the dressing room's metal railing. The next time I went to look for her, she was gone.
But not from my mind.
What kind of journey brings a person to such circumstances?
How different would her life be today if someone had sat her down and told her she was worth more? More than her "profession"... more than the scars on her body... more than the degrading person she was with.
How much higher do we hold our standards... when we're told we can meet them?
Our words can leave everlasting imprints.
Keep them uplifting.
