I once owned a white wicker basket. It would hold my various lotions and potions that smelled of my favorite flowers and sweet berries. How luxurious! Little did I know the same white basket could be used to hold a small container of milk, orange juice, a hot meal in a tin and a small salad of carrots, cheese and Russian dressing.
As I held my basket of barely there nourishment, I rang the doorbell of a home that had chipped yellow paint. Al answered the door. He didn't have a nose. Just an open sore with almost dried blood. His eyes met mine. "Good Morning." he said. I tried not to stare. My heart felt sore and I asked him how his day was going. "I've seen better." I handed him his one hot meal for the day and he smiled. "Can't wait to see you tomorrow." "Ok," I said, my eyes never leaving him until I backed up so far I almost fell off the stairs.
I turned to walk away and choked back my tears. I opened the door to my chauffeured mini van and Carmen, the driver noticed my state. "Cancer" she said. I couldn't get the image of his face out of my brain. "He has no family, he owns his house and the government will probably take it when he passes." She put the car in drive and turned left, turning up the music, a melancholic Cuban ballad and we were off to our next client. This was my first day volunteering at the Senior Center in Hollywood to work off a speeding ticket I didn't have the money to pay for. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
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