Archive for April, 2015

Down

April 30, 2015

Down

A young man sat in the wheelchair. The day was sunny and warm, early spring in the city. The young man didn’t seem to notice the weather. His chin rested on his chest and his eyes were closed. A cardboard sign hanging from his neck said:

I am Homeless. Need a miracle. Please help. People walked by him on their way to the subway.

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Die

April 30, 2015

Die

A great big mattress was in the middle of the sidewalk.  Someone—a man—had covered himself up with blankets. At the foot of the mattress/bed someone had put a book. The title was: Never Say Die.

When?

April 22, 2015

She walked by a park and sat down on the nearest bench. She didn’t want to go back to the apt., the apt. that wasn’t hers. She watched people talking and laughing, all having a seemingly good time. She thought: When will this end? How will it end? I don’t want to feel like this. It is not good. It keeps me lost and confused. All I want is peace and quiet, a place to rest my soul. A place to forget the last few years, so full of trauma and heartache.It’s not that I want to be like them. I am not them, I am just me. I do want to be glad about something. To smile just because.

Nickels

April 21, 2015

Oh, it was unbelievable! Her little pile of nickel, those nickels and dimes he had saved so carefully. In  flash they were gone. Now he had nothing, nothing at all. The thought of starting all over made her cringe. How long would it take her to get her little pile again? More years than she cared to think about, more years than she had available.

Never Was

April 21, 2015

It had never belonged to her. It had never been something that she owned or even liked. It was a place, another one of those temporary places full of furniture that was someone else’s. Not her property—none of it was or had ever been. Soon she would have to leave it, close the door on it forever. How would he feel then? Her trap would be gone and there would be no replacement.

Before

April 21, 2015

Was it before? It has happened before, the feeling of being lost in the crowd. She stood in the middle of the street, thinking, thinking hard. Where could she go next? It was early and there was nothing to do. The minutes and the hours went by so slowly. She yawned and didn’t know why. Her life, her own life, bored her. It had become a painful, ugly thing. She could no longer control it. She looked at the clock inside the Laundromat. 4 o’clock. What will I do? Where will I go before it’s time to sleep?

Someone

April 15, 2015

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?

Him

April 15, 2015

Him

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.

The Touch

April 14, 2015

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.

Mock Home

April 10, 2015

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.