05/07/2025
HE STANDS THERE EVERY MORNINGāBUT HEāS NOT ASKING FOR A THING
I saw him for the first time on a Monday.
Right in the middle of the station chaosābriefcases swinging, coffee spilling, everyone in a rush to be somewhere else. He stood still, leaning on a worn wooden cane, a yellow sash across his chest that read HELPING THE HOMELESS. A small donation tin in one hand. A smile in the other.
And at his feet, that sign.
āIF I GET WET
I CAN CHANGE MY CLOTHES
IāM COLLECTING FOR SOMEONE WHO CANāTā
I stopped. Not for long. Just enough to read it twice. Something about the way it was writtenāplain, honest, trueāhit harder than any polished campaign ever could.
He didnāt call out. Didnāt shake the tin or wave anyone down. He just stood there, present, like heād made peace with being ignored but still showed up anyway.
The next day, he was there again.
And the next.
Eventually, I started bringing him tea. Nothing fancy. Just enough to keep his hands warm. We didnāt talk much. But one morning, when the crowd thinned, I asked him why he did itāwhy not stay home and rest?
He tapped the tin lightly and said, āBecause she couldnāt.ā
I didnāt ask who she was. Didnāt need to.
But the next time I saw him, the tin had a photo taped to the side.
A young woman. Bare shoulders. Big grin. Wrapped in a blanket on what looked like a train platform.
And underneath, in his shaky handwriting:
āMy daughter. Before the streets.āā¬ļø