Children | Death | Discouragement | Family | Homelessness | Mother | Possessions | Tragedy

KATHY’S LITTLE PAINT CAN
She came to our front door Tuesday morning, dressed in dirty rags, holding a little aluminum paint can in her arms. From the second she stepped inside our shelter, she mystified us. Whatever she did, wherever she went, the little paint can never left her hands. When Kathy sat in the crisis shelter, the can sat in her arms. She took the can with her to the cafeteria that first morning she ate, and to bed with her that first night she slept. When she stepped into the shower, the can was only a few feet away. When the tiny homeless girl dressed, the can rested alongside her feet. “I’m sorry, this is mine,” she told our counselors, whenever we asked her about it. “This can belongs to me.” Do you want to tell me what’s in it, Kathy?” I’d ask her. “Um, not today,” she’d say, “Not today.” When Kathy was sad, or angry or hurt — which happened…