After a series of little things, or perhaps not-so-little things making themselves felt as little things, I came home last night, yelled at Mark and threw myself onto the bed, kicking the mattress and sobbing into my pillow.

This morning there was a busker in the metro. An old west-indian guy who’s been a regular as long as I’ve been working downtown. Strumming his acoustic guitar and singing his familiar, comforting, hopeful reggae.

I gave him a dollar. He gave me a smile.

Little things.

This entry was posted on Friday, October 9th, 2009 at 08:16 and is filed under compassion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.