Deny the Connection

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 label her Dying.

 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. 

 Do you have a “on being human” moment that you wished you’d done something but didn’t?

By Sandra Wilson

March 2017