I squinted through my window, an insomniac again. Without my contacts in, I could see only the reflection of headlights in the chrome bumper of the car parked on the street, otherwise, I’d not have known it was there. I caught the shadow of a man walking by and I remembered the homeless man I’d wanted to take a photo of yesterday.

He has built himself a little home under the 101 bridge on Argyle. He’s just blocks away from the most famous intersection of this city (and perhaps of this era), yet he pitches tarp over two grocery carts like he’s on a campground, unaware of the stars in the eyes of younger passers-by. He’s a scruffy looking man, confident, as if he’s been doing this for quite some time, and he doesn’t seem to resent the stares he gets from drivers of Porches, Mercedes, Jags, and even White Ford Broncos as they wait nervously at the red-light, counting the beats until green.

They feel more uncomfortable watching him than he feels at being watched.

His collection is impressive. Two grocery carts, orange tarp, several large boxes, a bottle of wine, extra sweat suits, a baseball cap, four bags of recyclables, and a mostly-dead flower arrangement next to a push broom, used to keep the carts parked.

Days ago, I was at that red-light, counting beats before green, and I wanted to photograph him, take a piece of that image back Home with me.

I am trying to escape, yet I want memories to come with me… only the good ones. This has been hard for me, living here, and I know that I’ve begun to reach out and around, a vine stretching to find room to grow. Yet I’m ready to cut myself just above the roots again, pick up and move on, leaving what I’ve woven here to dry up and decay alone.

Days later, the man is gone. He has left all of his belongings, with the exception of the wine, under the bridge for others to dig through. The home he occupied for weeks is now dark, cold. I realize that the pieces of ourselves we leave behind do not die alone. Our vines are intertwined. Everywhere we go.