Mom and I met in San Francisco in July 2010 to tour Napa Valley. We spent a day driving around the San Francisco area, visiting John Muir forest, Fisherman’s Wharf and, of course, City Light Books, former literary home of the Beat writers. Three floors of Heaven, the site of Allen Ginsberg’s historic reading of Howl. Such a rich history. Imagine who stepped into that bookstore in the past — Kerouac, Neal Cassady, Burroughs!

One morning I wondered around the Cyril Magnin and Ellis area as dozens of people rushed to work. I wanted to take a picture of one of the homeless folks asking for money. The toothless woman was belligerent, so I decided to move on.

Then this guy came along. Not sure how I introduced myself to a homeless man. Perhaps “Hey, do you mind if I take your picture?” sufficed. I asked a few questions about how he got there, the answer to which consisted of the words “Fresno,” “prison,” and “parole.” He moved slowly and seemed so worn down, poor guy, and understandably so. Sand peppered his beard, as if he’d been sleeping on a beach. I wanted to know more if he cared to talk but felt I’d worn out my welcome.

He’s holding the only money I had with me.