The Man by the Sea and His Little Gin

It was a day like any other for me.

For someone else, it was a day of not knowing where he would wake the next morning.

Near the beach, with my partner and my little cousin, I saw a man sitting on a rock, staring at the horizon, a little puppy beside him, wagging his tail at the world.

Instinctively, I walked toward them.

Tattoos and a beard like a pirate, eyes like a child still looking for love. The smell of cheap wine surrounded us as he smiled softly.

We never exchanged our names. We did not need to.

But the puppy wanted us to know his. Gin.

Abandoned on the highway. Dead, if his savior had not stopped.

The man’s eyes shone whenever he spoke about his little Gin. He ignored the hateful words, the bitter laughter of passengers who looked at us as though kindness were something shameful.

Then, in a moment of pure trust, he took out his flute and began to play.

We all turned toward the horizon, lulled by the ocean.

He did not sing very well. It did not matter.

Our laughter had the perfect pitch for that afternoon.

When the sun began to set, we left to buy food.

When we returned, he looked surprised to see us.

We gave something to him and something to Gin.

He cried. He could not stop.

A drunken brute to everyone else. A sweet soul to me.

You call him homeless and change sidewalks.

I walk toward him.

People have stories to tell, hearts waiting to be discovered.

I will keep him and his little Gin inside my heart forever,

hoping that one day every man, every woman, every soul on this earth will be treated as though their life matters.