The rain tumbles from the sky. Great big drops. Perfect little water bombs.
I look out of my bedroom window at the people running by in raincoats, their umbrellas twisting in the wind and I shiver in sympathy. The reality is I am wearing my purple slippers, my chunky knit and I can hear the buzz of the central heating. The rainy day is not my problem.
Somewhere past my gaze, down the water logged road is a person huddling from the stormy weather. The same person I watched from the balcony of my friend’s city apartment last week. He was milling on a street corner waiting for the food van to set-up. Hot soup would be served in cups, by people who just do things for others because it’s right. Something lead the man to be sheltering, in the shadows, from the rain. I don’t know his story. The only certainty is that it’s winter and it’s damn cold out there.
I sit and watch the rain fall. The wind caresses the trees, pushing the branches this way and that. The puddles reflect the windows to your soul.
If you can spare a coat, a warm blanket, some food, money, a moment of your time – please give to someone searching for somewhere dry to sleep.
It’s freezing out there.