(Note: I have altered some of the details in this post in order to conceal this man’s location, but everything I wrote about him and what he has done to the area under the bridge is 100% true.)

There is a man in a nearby town who lives under a bridge. It’s a four-lane bridge that crosses over a wide stream and a walking path. I find myself on that path several times a week, and whenever I pass under, there he is.

The area under the bridge is paved, of course, but on either side there are patches of woods. The embankments are steep, creating a feeling of two worlds, above and below. Above is all bustle and noise: buses, trucks, endless cars, an Alamo Rent-a-Car, a Chinese restaurant, a busy coffee shop, a bike repair shop. Below, it is quieter. Leafy and green, it’s not too hard to tune into the sound of the river instead of the traffic passing overhead. When you do, you begin to notice the lushness of the forest, the birds, the wildflowers. It’s not uncommon to spot deer. You can almost feel like you’re in a sacred place.

He didn’t use to be there. It used to be that the area under the bridge was scrubby and unkempt, just a bunch of dirt and litter made impenetrable by weeds. I noticed the changes before I ever noticed the man. First, the litter disappeared. It had always bothered me to see it piled up where I couldn’t reach it; its absence was conspicuous and welcome.

Then came the flowers. Beautiful flowers, bold and red and growing in rows, carefully tended. One day there appeared a row of flower-pots, bursting with blooms. Other decorations of the lawn-art variety would appear and disappear. Once, late in the summer, a large bowl of tomatoes was placed on the balustrade of the bridge. It was there quite a while, piled high and red.

I don’t remember when he acquired the bike. But by the time fall came around this year, the bike, like the man, was a permanent fixture. I think I’ve only seen him on it once or twice. Usually, I’ll find him pacing around in tight circles, or jumping from rock-to-rock in the river. I learned that if I stooped down a little and squinted up into the shadows of the eaves, I could see the edge of a blanket, just the right length for a bed. In all this time since he made this place his home, the entire area has been kept impeccably neat and clean.

As the weather turned cold this winter, I thought about him more and more. Surely, I hoped, he spends the colder nights in one of the shelters in town? Then last week, the cold front swept the country. Temperatures here sunk almost to single digits some nights. But even on the most frigid mornings, he was there.

What could I do? What can we ever do? This town has resources for the homeless. There are plenty of places for him to shelter. There’s a library, a community center, and a homeless shelter, all within an easy walk of the bridge. Clean, quiet, and contained as he is, I don’t believe he’d be kicked out of any of these places. So why does he stay under this bridge, even on the coldest of mornings? Is it really possible that he is spending his nights there, too, tucked up in the eaves, and somehow surviving?

What I ended up doing is so paltry I’m almost embarrassed to mention it. Just a stone’s throw away from the bridge is a coffee shop. They were all out of gift cards, so I ordered one online. It finally arrived yesterday. It was 27 degrees at 7am this morning when I sent my very best Elf (my husband ) to deliver the card.

He parked in the Rent-a-Car lot and slipped down the embankment in his nice work clothes. He never saw the man himself, but the man’s bike was there, so my husband left the card on the bike, scrambled back up the embankment, and headed to work.

I walked by on the path at a little past 8am, glancing as I past under the bridge. The man was there, barely visible, sitting on his blanket in the eaves. There was no card on the bike. I’m hopeful he got his gift. I’m hopeful that he’ll use it as his ticket to a warm place. And I hope he’ll allow himself plenty of hot drinks when the cold gets to be too much.

It’s so little, but it’s what I could think of.

Thank you, man under the bridge. You keep a lovely home.