I am Luc of the Street

A Warm Gift

Paris is suspended in icy cold. Endlessly trapped. I haven't felt relentless cold like this since I was a boy.

They called that winter the worst in years, and we lost one of our little tribe to pneumonia that year. You can tough out a few days of cold, but weeks on end? Only the strongest survive.

This winter shows signs of being the same as that one. By now, you know how cold and snow make me itchy, anxious. Maybe I can't rest because I know there are kids out there, my kids, the ones who call me "Papa Lion," and expect me to look after them. In the warmer months, it's easy to keep track of them, but in cold like this, they're hidden away. There are twelve kids I know of, so I better get looking, get them to a warm, safe place. Sure, there are more out there I don't know, who I may never find, but I'm only one man. I can only do what I can do.

What can you do? This is the season for giving, yeah? Wasn't baby Jesus out in the cold on Christmas, too? Think of the cold babies out there right now and give the gift of warmth.

Snow Job

Jean-Paul shook me awake today, excitedly. "It's snowing, Pa." But when I opened my eyes, it wasn't excitement I saw on his face. It was panic.

"Winter's coming so early this year," he said, his brows knitting. I reminded him he had a roof over his head, and massaged away the worried furrow on his brow. "The snow can't hurt you anymore," I said. He blushed, admitted he was being silly—but there was still a hint of dread in his eyes.

Once you've lived on the street, it's hard to enjoy snow. Snow = death. I've talked about this before. Rain, snow, cold—the elements do a number on me, make me anxious, stir up bad memories. Even if my mind forgets, my body remembers. The Little Luc inside pulls my muscles taut with dread. For Jean-Paul, just off the streets a little over a year, those memories are fresh and painful. But even I, off the streets for two decades, felt my gut clench when I looked out the window and saw snow dusting the rooftops of Montmartre.

"Looks pretty," I lied, wrapping a comforting arm around JP as we watched the white death fall from the sky. "Don't you think?" I asked. JP looked at me, warily. "I guess so," he said. "From in here."

In the end, we stayed inside where the snow sort of looked pretty and where it couldn't do a job on us. I flipped it the bird from behind a tightly sealed window, and JP laughed out loud. He flipped the snow off, too, hurled some epithets, and we both felt like we'd conquered the elements.