Transit

He was hunched over in his wheel chair wearing nothing but a hospital gown. His legs were swollen, red, festering with large open sores. His gray hair was matted. Because of his mobility and size he probably couldn't bathe often.

Scattered among the piles of books and clothing and dishes, a cap from the Navy, a painting of a Shriner, an amateur radio set.

I tried to picture him as a child, out in a sandlot playing ball with his friends. I tried to see him managing communications between ships at sea. I tried to think of those warm summer nights when he and his wife would take long walks and make wishes on shooting stars.