by G. Jack
Urso
(author's collection).
It looks
like a pile of garbage waiting to be tossed out, but it’s not. This is
someone’s life — the entirety of all their belongings in this world.
At the
beginning of the school year, I was transferred down to the inner-city, same
block as “the projects.” I teach adult education and my students range from 18
on up. There was a woman who was daily fixture. We knew she was homeless, about
40. We offered to hook her up with various services through our program,
including free meals, but she already had her high school diploma. Not that it
ever did her much good, but she didn’t like fronting for something she didn't
think would be of use to her just to eat. Besides, she didn’t know the other
city. This patch of asphalt she knew. She probably lived in the projects before
she ended up on the streets.
She wrapped
all her belongings up carefully in garbage bags, hauling them around in carts,
finding a place to stash it. Ours was a safe place.
She passed
the time away in the reception area. She kept to herself. She would get in
early as possible and use the bathroom to take a sponge bath. No one was
bothered. There were other bathrooms and she always left it as clean as she
found it. She had a tablet she would use to surf looking at ads for apartments
she could never afford. Looking at help wanted ads, but she could never get
hired because if you don’t have an address you’re not allowed a future.
Before you
think “Well, if she can afford a tablet . . . ” — stop right there. Without a
computer and Internet access in this day and age, she may as well be blind,
deaf, and mute. It was an old tablet, doubtful it would fetch much, certainly
not enough to rent an apartment, but good enough to look at ads for apartments
she could never afford and classifieds for jobs no one would hire her for.
Then, in
November she disappeared. I came back from Thanksgiving Break and her
belongings were neatly packed and arranged by the outside garbage can behind
the bike rack no one ever uses.
December,
January, February came and went, but she never returned. Maintenance had every
right to dump them into the garbage and take it out with the trash. But no one
did. Even after four months this woman’s belongings are still there. No one has
the heart to remove them. She’ll be back, my students said, but the older among
them know. They’ve seen it before. She’s not coming back.
I didn’t
get to know her. Exchanged a few words, held open the door a few times, but I
was busy with my students. I never even asked her name.
I hope she’s
alive. I hope someone saved her and she left her life in the streets and all her
belonging behind. “I hope” — the emptiest phrase in the English
language.
We all have
debts and bills and struggles with loneliness and anxiety or whatever, and the
future looks bleak, but there’s a roof over my head and I knew one person who
would have traded all her miseries for ours if it came with a roof and a home
she could call her own.
Maybe she
found the helping hand she needed. Maybe the odds caught up to her. Maybe there
was nothing no one could do. Maybe there was one person who could have made
that difference. Maybe that was me, probably not, but I was busy and we'll
never know.
We continue
to watch over her things. I still look for her as I drive through the city, but
maybe I’m really looking for forgiveness and redemption.
I hope someday to find
both.
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