It was a little after 6 a.m. and I was driving along Pascagoula Street on my way to I-55. In my rearview mirror was the skyline of Jackson. To my right, a cyprus swamp along the Pearl River. I normally drive slower through there due to the occasional deer that likes to feed along the median. I saw something that I thought was an animal and slowed — no sense of losing a fender if you don’t have to. But it wasn’t an animal.
It was a man.
He looked young, dirty and wore a soiled tan shirt. His face was clean shaven. I was past him before I could look twice.
I wondered about his story. Should stop? Did he need help? Was he slumped over against the tree because of drug addiction? Where was his family? His friends. I wondered about the choices he had made in his life to have led him to that tree next to the swamp.
I’ll never know.
I kept driving. I’m sure he kept sitting. For less than 10 seconds our lives kind of intersected. And then we moved on.
Oh my…