Trinity

He's a powerfully built man dressed all in black from his hood to his boots. Enormous gnarled hands rest on his lap and he is talking to my wife.

 

This doesn't surprise me. Sheree will talk to anyone So far she's survived. But I hightail it over there as quickly as possible, anyway.

 

"This is my friend," says Sheree. "His name is Trinity."

 

I reach out a hand and it disappears into his fist. I am hoping he will give it back.

 

He does. I notice scabs and scars on his face...the striking way his light hair and beard contrast with the black. He is a very put together street person.

 

Sheree shoots for a while and then wanders off into the Farmer's Market. I stay and we talk, Trinity and I.

 

"What happened to your nose?" I ask. It is almost flush with his face.

 

"My natural mother broke my nose the first time. Ahhh...once in a back alley someone else broke it. And I think someone hit me in the face last night. But I'm not sure."

 

I've met Trinity.

 

He lives on the streets and has for the past two years since he walked away from his oilfield surveying job.

 

"I was wasting my time," he told me, lounging comfortably in a plastic chair at the Edmonton Farmer's Market. His manner seems to suggest he owns whatever area of the planet he happens to be in.

 

"My job was the same thing...day after day. I couldn't do it any more. God was calling me."

 

Now he wears only black from head to toe. He lives downtown. His clothes are torn but there's a real dignity about him.

 

He's articulate and intelligent and he expresses viewpoints and describes habits that frankly surprise me.

 

But I have to save something for tomorrow...

Done