Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving

The leather man wandered without talking for years, wearing a coat and scarf made from pelts. He stood almost seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds.

Even once arrested he was found sane except for an emotional affliction.

Towns changed tramp laws for him to be allowed to become .

I can only imagine him walking through a blizzard towards a small farm house on his 365 mile loop.

Knocking on the door, as he had knocked on many before, and being welcomed in to eat.

Would I let him in even if I didn’t know he died with a French prayer book in his coat pocket? Even if I didn’t know he slept most nights in caves.

Would I let him in if he were me? Would I even knock?