5 days a week I passed the dark man who never failed to move me as few street people have, and he was most clearly a member of that tribe. He sat under the Burrard St. bridge on a chair in the community garden, leaning his elbows on his thighs looking down at the ground between his legs, dreaded hair hanging forward. Sadness/loneliness/despair, all emanated like mist, almost visible for its strength. His chair sat amidst a garden that spoke of hope and renewal as spring dawned. The juxtaposition making his presence all the more poignant. People walked, cycled, ran and drove by and I never saw anyone give him a glance.

Then one day he was gone, him and his chair vanished. I almost gasped for the lose. I looked around hoping that he, looking for some privacy, had moved deeper into the garden away from the street –…