I remember the magic of Christmas morning—the enchantment that came from the mere sight of gifts mysteriously placed beneath an artificial tree.

I remember gazing into a room packed with so man different faces, wondering what circumstances had brought them there. Did they make a few bad choices? Or could it have been a case of undirected aspiration that led them to the shelter? Sometimes I feel lost, too.

I remember the school nights I spent lying on the couch, trying to stay up for Late Night with Conan O’Brien, hoping that my mom wouldn’t hear that I was awake and make me to go to bed.

I remember all of the “thank yous” I was given as I served the Drop Inn guest bowls of watery beans. I wondered if they would have thanked me if they knew that the ones who were served before them got beef ravioli.

I remember the anticipation building as the smell of taco spices crept up the steps and infiltrated my room while I sat at my desk, struggling through pre-algebra homework that I was sure I would never need to apply in real-life.

I remember getting back into the van after leaving the Drop Inn, hoping that the heat would come on fast as snowflakes dotted the windshield.