Jessica Gilmore

Karma

Growing up in poverty, I placed very little value on money. I stumbled through life having very little and focusing on experiencing life, rather than being fiscally responsible. As naive as this sounds, it worked out well for me for years. It was not until my house burned down that I realized that money may not buy happiness, but it does buy survival. Having no family and very few friends, I did not have many options for shelter. Eventually, I swallowed my pride and ended up at a homeless shelter in Pittsburgh. Shelters were overcrowded during this time, so I landed in a repurposed factory with roaches and rats that scurried around at night. Day in and day out, there was an old man with a grey, scruffy beard that sat in a dark, damp corner alone. He had only the clothes on his back a small black notebook that he held onto for dear life. I studied this man for months before finally approaching him. On his old, rusty cot, I sat next to him studying the worry lines in his eyes. The old man looked at me with his kind eyes, as if he had been expecting me. His name is Carl.