A Cup Called Hope
The homeless man clutched within his sun bleached hand a yellowed photo of a woman who might have been his mother. His entire worldly possessions lay near his battered shoes. His past, his present, perhaps his future. A tattered journal’s pages rustled in the wind, speaking memories of days long past. A small bag of faded clothing, a frayed sleeping bag. A barren coffee cup, which might have once held hope. I watch the front doors of the shelter swing open. The drab building stands in stark contrast against the amber sun, as it slips silently into twilight. The homeless...