She sits on a blustery corner trying to find some relief from the cool breeze.
A sniffle and sneeze is muffled by the roaring traffic.
Yet among her tattered clothes and rickety, wooden stool, something is quite beautiful.
Something draws me to that weathered body from which tired eyes penetrate into my soul.

I give her a small bag of water and galletitas and she she thanks me.
Yet, her gratitude rips into my heart.
It is as if her incessant words of thanks beg me not to leave.
A lonely life such as this is rarely graced with the compassion of another human being.

I cannot leave her without extending my hands to hers, if only for a second.
I see the presence of an apparently cold body,
but I feel warmth and tenderness in her hands;
After all, they were created to hold and love.

I wonder how long it has been since they have been able to embrace and be embraced.
As I leave her sitting there, I walk away feeling ashamed-
Ashamed of how I so often fail to extend my hands to others.
How selfishly I seem to go through this life.

Her feeble hands are still here, waiting-
Waiting for sometone to come again and embrace them, if only for a moment.