One Night

I was about 23.

It was a cold night. Below zero. The homeless shelter I worked at was over capacity, we couldn’t accept any more people.

My heart ached. What a failed system. How was this helping?

He was disheveled. Intoxicated. He had a smile I’ll never forget. I had to tell him we were over capacity. I scolded him for not coming in sooner. I offered to get him a cab to somewhere. There was nowhere, really, he told me. He had been kicked out of the other shelter, he didn’t have anywhere.

I took two of our dismal grey blankets. He wrapped them around himself and went to sit on the bench outside. After several minutes, I bundled myself up.

I went outside. And I sat while he slept.

I checked his breathing all night and woke him every hour to come inside and warm up.

That one night? He never forgot. He would thank me everytime he saw me while I was at work, or around town. He came in early every night the rest of the winter, to make sure he had a spot. The city opened an overflow shelter so we didn’t have to turn people away.

I never forgot that night either, and whenever I’m stuck on a selfish feeling I remember it. I snuggle in closer to my husband and remember that one night.