It was a Monday afternoon filled-up with mamas pushing babies in prams, doorways graced with sleeping smelly bodies, and smashed 7-11 cups floating in gutters. The sun was out enough to cast the shadow of a bent stop-sign across a street.
I passed under an overpass, then walked by an empty bench waiting to be filled with bus riders. In the middle of the bench was a book. Without changing step I leaned down and scooped it up. The book was upside-down in my hand; I turned it over; then I read the title. The book was Dorothy Day’s autobiography, The Long Loneliness. I stared at the book, then I stopped walking. I’d been trying to find The Long Loneliness in used bookstores for a few weeks without much success. It looks like the book found me instead.
