Written by Cindy McCalmont

They wanted a cup of coffee. 

It was late March. The day was cold and grey, and snow was forecast for the afternoon.

At the round tables in Carlson Hall, people were talking and eating frosted chocolate donuts. The Fine Arts Team had hung a Lenten Art Display that surrounded the room on three sides. Some of the paintings were scenes of Jesus in the last days of his life. One of them was of a woman, the fur of her hooded parka encircling her with a softness that contrasted with the hard lines of her face and the enormity of the interstate bridge behind her.

Violet had gotten a nametag, written their name in purple, and affixed it to a parka very similar to the woman’s in the painting. Sloth maybe had a nametag too, although it was harder to tell since he spent most of the time with his head drooped onto his chest—both while he was standing to get the coffee and later when he seemed to be asleep on a repurposed pew under the painting of the woman.

In addition to the parkas they wore, both shouldered heavy backpacks, the straps of Sloth’s slipping off his shoulders like a child. Sloth was also wearing white Adidas slides without socks. 

A church member and I had been deep in conversation about her brother’s addiction when Violet and Sloth approached the coffee table. As Violet got coffee and added cream and sugar, the two of us started to talk. Another church member, a quilter with the top of her hair dyed purple, stopped to compare her hair color with Violet’s. Violet smiled.

As Violet and I sipped coffee, we shared stories and found we had things in common. We discovered we both liked to write. That our parents had chosen names for us that had been too popular at the time—Cindy for me in the 1960s; Sam for them in the 1980s. And that we both had gone through menopause. 

We moved from estrogen fluctuation to talking about other struggles. Abuse. Hospitalization. Shame. And people who’d told us we couldn’t or shouldn’t do things because of our gender assigned at birth. 

After a time, Violet looked over to where Sloth was slumped.  “He developed a cough last night,” Violet said. “He doesn’t feel well. I should check on him.”

The two of us paused, unsure of how to end what had been a good conversation. “Can I give you a hug?” Violet asked. I smiled and nodded, grateful for the chance to embody the connection I’d felt.

Later, I would learn that Violet had been invited to the church by a member who had seen them on the street. I would watch as the church member worried about her brother lovingly packed two to-go containers with donuts and juice boxes and leftover egg casserole. And tears would pool in my eyes as still another church member sat by Sloth on that repurposed pew taking off first her shoes and then her socks as if preparing for a Maundy Thursday foot washing—but then holding her socks out to Sloth.

And looking on us all was the woman in her hooded parka in front of the interstate bridge holding a cardboard sign that said: