I see you sometimes out when I go for a drive. Maybe at a signal or at a crossing. Always looking. Waiting, watching. In different stages of disrepair. Yes, disrepair. It’s the word I use because for so many you are not people anymore. But things. That can be ignored or thrown away.
I see you sometimes peeking in through my window when I’m enjoying a cold drink on a hot day or when I’m wrapped up in my shawl when it’s freezing out. Staring at half eaten food in my hands that I got out of joints you have only seen from the other side of that hard, rough pavement.
I see you and I am sorry. Sorry that I have so much and you don’t even have what you need. Clean clothes or food or water. Neither a roof on your head nor walls to keep you safe. I wish I could do something to make it better for you. Give a bit, a small piece. So many times I roll down my window and hand over the remains of my meal or small change from my purse hoping that maybe, just maybe it might lessen your suffering, if only for a few moments.
And when the light turns green and I move away, don’t think that it was just another face behind a glass that has passed out of your life. Don’t believe that that tiny interaction for the space of a few seconds was nothing to me. You left a part of you in my heart. Those hollow eyes, the streaks of dust on your face and hair, how you look so old when you’re but a child.
Don’t think I will forgot. I never will. And tonight just before I close my eyes, I will pray to God that you can one day remove this cloak of misery that shrouds you because no matter what I do, tomorrow morning I will still wake up on this side of the window and pray that it is not you I see on the other side.