It was shocking.

Not what I had come to expect.  I wouldn’t have pictured her in the foyer of the supermarket.

A scruffy, brown, long coat was under a bright yellow, reflective safety vest, and she had a basket.

Not a shopping basket like you use at the supermarket, but the kind you sometimes see homeless people with.  As I walked in she looked up at an item she was holding in her hands.  There were stubby dark fingers disappearing in to the well-worn sleeves.

She was not tall, and her complexion matched her hands.  Dark from the sun, and worn from the elements like old stone.  Deep cracks in her forehead and around her eyes told the stories of years.

I picked up a red, plastic basket from the pile, walked past and in to the store.  In a step I froze, wondering, and took out my wallet: 3 ones, a ten and a twenty.  I took out the ten dollar bill and walked back.  She was fidgeting with something and seemed uncomfortable and out of place.  There was nobody else around and she did not notice me until I was close, and reached out to her.  She looked up at me, not entirely seeming to understand.  Then, taking the money, she looked at me almost without comprehension in that brief moment before I spun on my heels and began to walk away.

From behind me I heard “have a good night.”  Spinning again, I made prayer hands and bowed deeply, turned around and walked away in to the store.

Could I have done more?  More than once I wanted to go back and empty my wallet to her.  Looking at her drew a sadness out of me; she needed more help than a minor good deed.