What was she doing here in this hot weather? The day was hot and humid, yet going in and out of the subway would have been too expensive. Her chin hit the sidewalk. It happened almost without her realizing it. One minute she was up and the next down. Her whole body hurt but the chin got the worst of it. he hoped someone in the street full of people would offer to help her up. No one did. he struggled up again as best she could, picking up her purse. She shook her head and on she went. The day was too bright to think about heartlessness.
Her hands were stretched out. They were wrinkled and worn as if they had worked hard for many years. The face was even more wrinkled than the hands. The woman’s eyes had tears running down the cheeks. Please, someone! Please! I am hungry, so hungry! Won’t you please help me with a meal?
She stood before him, her whole body trembling. I love you, she wanted to say. I know I should not because it’s not allowed, but I love you. You are my first grown up love. The man, young and good looking, kept his eyes on the chalice. He did not dare look up at the person in front of him. She waited a few minutes; then shrugged her shoulders. As her back was turned to him on her way out, she heard him gasp. Her head made a movement as if to turn towards him. She shrugged again and pushed the big thick door open.
Help! I wanted you to help me say it! I want you to understand how I feel about you. My eyes did the talking for me. I didn’t have to do anything with words. The way I stood, the way my hands tried not to show emotion or nerves—all were more eloquent than anything I would have dared say.
He sat on the asphalt, head down. The Beagle in front of him slept. The man touched her, once, twice, three and more times. Someone went by and read the letters written on the piece of cardboard: Homeless, trying to survive with my dog. Anything is appreciated. The someone shrugged his shoulders and walked on. The man kept looking and caressing his dog.
It is not real. It is not a real home. I am scared half the time, most of the time. It feels fake and surreal, like it can’t be actually happening. This eviction experience is not me. It’s not the real me. It belongs in Hell. I don’t.
It doesn’t matter now. You should have adopted me. I would have been loyal to you. We would have taken long walks in the park and the streets of your city. Your family would have been my family. But the shelter wouldn’t wait for you to arrive for me so they stuck a needle in my leg. Now I am dead. I am gone and you and I never met. A person petted me on the head before I closed my eyes forever. If I had been able to talk, I would have said thank you. Thank you for your kindness. I am so sorry my death has made you cry.
Sleep. Lots of sleep. I need to escape, to somehow get away. It will only be for a few hours but in those hours I won’t think and I won’t feel.I am being tossed out, put out on the street. I don’t know where else to go. Sleep is good. It is like a warm hug all around me.
It is you, you and only you. Yours is the name that I pronounce, yours is the image that I see in my mind’s eye when I think about the living being I love the most. You were there when no one else was. You were next to me when I needed you.
The person had short hair, almost crew cut style and dark hair, dark skin. The clothes were on the beat up side, pants and a sweatshirt. The person held on to the pole while the train was moving. “I get my food and clothes from the garbage. If you have any food with you that you don’t need, I’d gladly take it.” Nobody answered the person. A man touched the person on the shoulder and put several coins inside the plastic bag hanging from the person’s left arm. ” Thank you, sir,” the person said smiling a bit. The person moved towards the middle of the car. ” It can happen to you. It can happen to any of us. I get my food and clothes from the garbage. Could you spare a dime. Only a dime.”
I want to be held. I want to be held and comforted. I would like for someone to touch my head and caress my hair. I need a hug. I have to know that this horrible displacement experience is not happening again. My body has to be caught before it falls on the harsh pavement. I don’t want any bruises on my body or my face. The pain inside me is bad enough.
It isn’t a home. It isn’t my home. It never was. The things I have in the poisoned apt., the books and belongings that are dear to me try hard but it’s no good. I feel like a prisoner. I feel like an outcast, someone who doesn’t belong there or anywhere else. The two 5 day Quit notices I received have a lot to do with this feeling. I see the bed that my cat and I share. She likes the bed and thinks it is hers and ours. It isn’t. I see us out there on the street in this brutal New York weather. I cringe as if standing in front of someone who is going to push me/us off a cliff or mountain.