Come

It has come to this. You have to go. There is no other way, no other option. You have to go. There are no more delays, no more thoughts of things changing for the better. You have to go. You must leave my unhappy little home. After all my efforts, after all my accomplishments and half accomplishments, your time is done. It is no more. That is sad. That is tragic. It is so tragic that something deep inside me won’t stop weeping. It weeps for you; it weeps for the life you had, the life you miss, the one that cannot come back.

The Kid

The Kid

Hey, kid, I mean you, the one with the blond hair and the pony tail. Yes, you, the kid with the disapproving look. I saw you when you walked past me just now. Your face said it all. You think this is fun? You think that sitting here on the sidewalk gives me pleasure? I often get nothing except what your eyes just handed out. I was your age once. I never thought I’d be doing this, not for anything in the world back then did I imagine this, me doing what I do. No hard feelings, kid. You are new to life, much newer than I am. You don’t know much.  Someday you will—trust me. You’ll learn fast.

 

The Picture

The Picture

I see you. You are in the picture; you are the star of the picture that someone sent me. I look at you from a distance. I miss you. You’re gone from me physically. You’re still mine but you’re living in somebody else’s home. You cannot come back to despair. That mustn’t happen. When things are resolved, when things are the way they should be, you and I will be together again.

 

 

 

The Booklet

The Booklet

She stopped. The woman’s back was to the glass window of the store. From her purse she withdrew a booklet. “Here”, she told the older woman.” I don’t have money, but I have this. God Bless you. The old woman took the booklet. “Thanks.” When the younger woman was on the next block, the old woman looked at her gift. It was something to do with Christmas.  How can this really bless me, she muttered. No. There is no blessing in poverty.

Come

Come

It has come to this. You have to go. There is no other way, no other option. You have to go. There are no more delays, no more thoughts of things changing for the better. You have to go. You must leave my unhappy little home. After all my efforts, after all my accomplishments and half accomplishments, your time is done. It is no more. That is sad. That is tragic. It is so tragic that something deep inside me won’t stop weeping. It weeps for you; it weeps for the life you had, the life you miss, the one that cannot come back.

All

All–as in a dream, I saw it all. It was as clear as if the years had suddenly faded away. The sunlight seemed to caress the entire church. I saw  the wooden benches, the tile floor and the rectangular windows. The statue of the virgin was newly polished and up by the altar, the white linen cloth looked like it had been washed and ironed that morning. He came through the sacristy door and sat on one of the benches nearest the altar. I saw him from my place by the exit doors. I couldn’t move. My heart wouldn’t stop beating hard. I wanted to be where he was. I had to be where he was.

No One

I have no one. I have you. You are no one. You are no one to be counted. I know it’s not you; it’s your illness, the main illness that can kill you. It is killing you and you are letting it do a good job of it. The illness, the disease, has gone too far. It has taken over your life. Now it threatens to take over my life.

The Night

The night I lost my house I was by the kitchen sink washing dishes. I got the news and I couldn’t stop crying. My body shook with impotence and fury and sadness. I stood by the sink, with the faucet still on. My hands almost dropped a plate on the floor. I couldn’t move and sit on the chair by the window. I stood and the tears kept on coming. I knew that I would never recover my house. I could never make enough money on my own to get it back. Once it was gone, so was my life.

Hiss, Part 2

Yes, you are right. You’re damn right. I do hiss. I hiss just like a cat does when he is getting aggressive. That word–those 2 words–foreclosure and eviction always get to me. They are my demons. I hate those words. They spell insecurity and displacement and just plain pain. The words foreclosure and eviction disgust me. They remind me of lost years, lost years searching. Years of carrying suitcases and holding the largest one by my thin right arm. My arm used to go stiff and tense when the weight of the suitcase was too much.

Hiss

Hiss

Foreclosure—eviction. Two dreaded words—two words that started the descent into homelessness. Before the words were in the woman’s vocabulary, before they meant anything to her, she wanted a home—just a home. She wanted a place to belong, a place all to herself, with a great big kitchen looking at the street. She wanted a bright and sunny kitchen. The word home meant everything to her. The word home meant the end of a long, hard road to her own self. She had to belong somewhere, that’s why she was born. She  wasn’t born to be lost, to wander all over the world with her suitcase tied to her arm or hand.