I'm back to this early morning grind. It's so early, that I usually see several homeless people still sleeping on my way to work. A favorite sleeping place seems to be stairwells leading to Metro entrances. Yesterday, I saw the tell-tale lump of blankets and garments nestled in one of these stairwells, and the only thing indicating that there was a human being there were the two bare feet sticking out from the pile. The feet were smooth and clean. Perhaps the man had washed them before retiring. I had an urge to tickle them the way they were just out there like that. But what struck me most was the beauty of the feet. They were as if chiseled in alabaster, the faint blues of the veins barely shining through, the soles free of blemishes and callouses. They looked like the feet of royalty.
I continued on my way and behind me, I heard a small girl exclaim, "Mama, someone is sleeping there! Someone with big feet!" And there was a small beat until I heard a frantic, "Don't touch them!" presumably from the girl's mother. I had to smile as the little girl was just as intrigued as I was by the beautiful feet (some might consider that an oxymoron) sticking out from the pile.
All day, the image of those feet played across my mind. I wondered who they belonged to and why they were so pristine. And I remembered that beauty lurks everywhere. Simply everywhere.