First, I must say this: Requires reading to the end, if you’d like to know what the heck I’m writing about. It’s only 250 words.
My roommate and I split a three-bedroom house, and I have to send my rent out of state. I needed a postage stamp, that’s all. Since I work in infrastructure, I’m still working in Downtown Denver. First, I walked two blocks to Seven Eleven, but they were out of stamps. During this walk, some guy nearly ran me over. For the sake of making a point, I must add this: He was a Black Gentleman [stay with me please]. Next, I will add: During my moment of anger, I did not make a reference to race, because the color of skin is irrelevant. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even notice skin color, but this situation had [message] posted all over it.
This stamp problem left me with the option of walking to the closet Post Office, located on 16th & Marion Street, a memorable location from my first marriage [another story]. Instead of going back for the truck, I walked to the Post Office, purchased two stamps, and went outside to fill out the envelope. While outside, I gave a homeless woman [black] a bottle of water and five dollars. We talked for a minute, and then I went back to work. Halfway back, I found five dollars laying in the street. This, of course, is how the Universe works, maybe I should have given her twenty.
It’s all about the person, and nobody knows another’s story.
April 1, 2020