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Today I am visiting my family.
The oldest of my brothers is seventeen. He told me two days ago that he missed me, and I should come over. I can’t say no to a seventeen year old that asks for my time. Seventeen was such an incredibly rough year for me, and I remember how seventeen feels all too well.



And so off I go. I am wearing my husband’s sweater, which is just big enough to fit over my ever-expanding baby bump without stretching the material too much. I am also wearing one of his scarves, and carrying my supply of food in a bag of his. I am glad he is so good at sharing, because I am great at being shared with.



The bus I am on- the second of four busses that will eventually take me to my parents house- is on I-5, and it is almost downtown. When on a bus that is approaching downtown Seattle, you have a vantage point that you don’t often have when in a car on this same stretch of freeway. Sitting on the bus, I am high enough to see down over the guardrails on the edge of the freeway, down into the homes of the homeless.
We pass people sleeping under tarps, under cardboard, wrapped in dirty cloth almost as if they are hiding from any eyes that stray towards them. There are tents, and makeshift tents, all surrounded by garbage. Most importantly, there are people.
I don’t see faces, but I see the shapes of bodies beneath coverings to keep out the cold.

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