Not all of my neighbors live indoors.

I'll bet not all of your neighbors live indoors, either. I'll bet some of them sleep in cars. Or behind dumpsters. Or in doorways.

I'll bet some of them pick bottles and cans out of the trash.

I'll bet some of them have teeth that are broken and decayed.

The eyes may be the windows of the soul, but the teeth are the mirrors of the heart. And what does that make us if our teeth are coated with veneers?

People whose teeth are coated with veneers tend to look away from people whose  teeth are naked and brown. 

We segregate more by the color of teeth than by the color of skin.

My brown-toothed neighbor, John, used to smash my car window to search for loose change under the  seats. I decided it would be cheaper to make friends with him and give him the change directly. 

So I introduced myself.

John has the smile of a nine-year-old boy who rings the doorbell and runs. He squints to smother the baby in his eyes. But you can see him anyway, peeking out from under the cover of his lids. 

John asks me for money, but I say no. I tell John that heart disease is the number one killer of women, and that hugs have been proven to reduce heart disease. I tell him he can sell me a hug. 

John laughs and hides his face in his hands. We hug. I pay him less than what a human hug is worth, because I can't afford to pay a fair price. 

John brings me pretty scented candles he's found in the trash. He brings me poems that he's written. He brings me a painting he found, and tells me, "Put it on ebay. It might be worth a lot of money."

John tries to give back. John aches to give back. And I accept his gifts with gratitude.

It isn't having nothing that kills us; it's thinking we have nothing to give.

John is a huge blessing in my life. He doesn't believe me when I tell him that. He just laughs and shakes his head. 

He's a wonderful neighbor.