Marilyn has spoken here of our shared humanity and of regret for not
taking action, for not slowing down to let a moment pass without considering
its gifts. As a guest on her blog, I
wanted to continue to honor her exploration, so I offer my own example of wishing
I had taken action before it was too late.
In the last
vestige of daylight I dodge aggressive cars as I hustle toward the market
entrance. The automatic lights twitch on
and I notice a woman I’ll have to pass on the bench up ahead.
Her dusty
brown hair is matted like the fur of an abandoned dog. The layers of clothes she’s wearing look like
the rags you keep for unpleasant wipe-up jobs after which you discard
them. These rags hang down her form and
stop short of the ground revealing grossly oversized ankles connected to canvas
shoes so infused with grime that their color is indistinguishable. A cart with items in it not normally
associated with the use of a grocery buggy is parked a stretched arm’s length
away. Her hands lay in the area of her
lap, fingernails uneven and discolored, arms puffy and taut like overstuffed
ground meat casings.
As I
approach the automatic doors her cloudy eyes lock with mine for just an
instant. I quickened my pace, avert my
glance and steel myself for the anticipated assault of words or gestures
requesting money. But I make it into the
store unassaulted.
A few
minutes later I come back out with a bag of groceries. But the scene is now punctuated with ambulance
lights. People are mulling about talking
in hushed tones in a loose semi-circle around the woman on the bench. The fluorescent lights from the store give
her skin a grayish translucent tone like that of an onion as its freshness is
cooked away. Her pale and peeling lips
are relaxed and parted. Her head is
slightly tilted down to her right shoulder and a bit forward as if asleep, with
eyelids half closed. I think about how
earlier I couldn’t move past her fast enough.
And as I did, life was drifting from her body.
At first
glance I labeled her Homeless, Alcoholic, Drug Addicted, Beggar, Hopelessly
Mentally Ill, a Low Human Being, Worthless, Beneath Me; Unworthy Of My
Attention, A Bother.
I didn’t consider that once she was a little
girl, someone’s daughter; or a mother or someone’s lover. I can’t let go of the stare.
By Sandra Wilson
March 2017
