Hidden Treasures

Hidden Treasures

There was a frozen stillness in the air one December morning as I hurried down the crowded sidewalk. Panic began to set in the more I realized how if I miss this bus, I will have to wait another hour to catch the next one and the thought of it sent shivers down my spine. Darting between people and practically leaping over the slow ones, I managed to squeeze onto the bus and found a window seat. Every morning my commute to work began with a multitude of ‘excuse me,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ and an occasional ‘get the hell outta my way!’ Even though I lived in the city for three years, I never became accustomed to its erratic energy and rude strangers.

At times, I just wanted to return to the small town where everyone knew each other. I was raised as an only child by a single mother and an entire village of people. When she died suddenly from a heart attack, my world became a dark, lonely place. I got tired of looking at the sorrowful smiles and listening to the same condolences. Every time I reached a place where I managed the relentless waves of grief, someone would say words of sympathy and another tsunami of pain came over me. I had to leave. I had to go someplace where nobody knew of me or my loss. After landing a job 250 miles away, I packed my suitcase, grabbed my mother’s boxes, and left. I lived in a hostel until my first paycheck then got an apartment. The bus became my mode of transportation, which was hard to adjust to. It forced me to be around all types of people and to sit close to strangers.

I pulled my tablet from the backpack with the intent to play a game while passing time and avoiding conversations during the 45-minute ride, only to be disappointed by its low battery. I forgot to charge it overnight. Deciding to take a nap, I turned my head towards the window to watch large, marshmallow-like snowflakes float quietly from above. I laughed as some faces were frowned up with bitter disappointment and others smiled and were pleased to see the snow.

Homeless people lay motionless along the side of buildings and packed tightly into storefront doorways. Elongated lumps under a disarray of blankets and clothes were people stretched out on every block. I saw a lucky few who secured their place over grates to absorb the heated steam as it rose from the bowel of the city up through the pavement.

The bus turned the corner onto another busy street where commuters simply stepped over bundles that occupied all the room on the sidewalks. I was appalled by how so many people ignored those who begged for money. They would not look into their eyes or acknowledge them with a response as if they were invisible. I asked myself, where is the humanity? It was then I realized that I was no better. How did I live here for three years and pass them every day but not see them? When did I become one of those inhumane people?

I arrived at work, having not been able to nap along the way. I was haunted by the images of a world that was unfathomable to me. In the mostly rural community where I grew up, there would be the occasional beggar but nothing like what existed in the inner city. I tried to commiserate with a few coworkers and found them to all have varying viewpoints.

“They’re all addicts of some sort. Never give them any money because they will just use it on drugs or alcohol,” some said.

Others would tell me things like, “It’s their choice to live that way. They are mentally ill and dangerous.”

Still, others would espouse a certain degree of compassion from empathy that I could not shrug off. Their displays of emotions followed me home and kept me up at night.

The streets were practically bare the following morning during my commute. Five inches of snow prevented many of the homeless from being out in the open and directly exposed to the elements. I finally found a dry place that sheltered me from the snow, when I heard a faint, soft voice next to me. I could not make out what the question was, but it became clear once I noticed the trembling hand holding out a paper cup. However, in my arrogance, I responded with, “What did you say?”

It was ridiculous in the way that I made him humiliate himself further by begging me again for change, but in doing so we made eye contact. Behind the scruffy layers of material and underneath the hood-covered face were the blue eyes of what was not a man at all. It was a woman. A small child emerged from between her legs, like a joey hidden and tucked safely away.

Just then my bus had arrived. I reached into my bag and handed her two crumpled five-dollar bills, along with my bottle of apple juice and sandwich I had packed for lunch. The appreciation I felt from her, and her child was palpable.

“Good luck to you,” I said as I boarded the bus.

I looked out of the window and watched as she shuffled into a nearby corner store with her daughter in tow.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

The voice came from a lady who sat next to me and who caught the same bus with me every morning.

“Uh. yeah. It is. I just hope she buys the little girl something to eat and not spend it on drugs or alcohol,” I said.

“We can only hope. You can’t control what she does with it once you give it to her. If your little money can stop her from being dope sick or from getting the bens from alcohol withdrawal, that’s a good thing, as well, especially for her baby girl. If you are really worried about that, next time buy them warm soup, and give it to them.,” she said.

She told me that she worked at the shelter nearby and as an advocate and for the unhoused – a term she preferred to use instead of calling them homeless. She said that political correctness gets a bad rap when it only means to show respect. She told me that while a few of them on the streets have fallen from grace after once living a good life; others are running from and just waiting for a miracle.

“Take that mother and child back there,” she said. “Women dress like men on the streets for their own protection and hide their children out here. Many times, there are entire families with children under those mounds of blankets.”

As we parted, she left me with a few choice words of advice. “If you have change to spare give it from your heart, without conditions.”

When I returned home that evening, I missed my mom terribly. I remembered the boxes I had taken from her closet. She kept mementos of my childhood, including years of clothes that I had outgrown. She used to say that she loved to look at them from time to time for good memories and she loved how they smell like me. I sorted through them and ununderstood what she meant. Blurry pictures of a childhood during simpler times. Dresses, shirts, pants, socks, and shoes brought back the memories of the occasions for which they were meant. School clothes and coats that became too small every year were neatly folded and carefully placed into several boxes. The smell of her on my clothes brought tears to my eyes and thoughts of the past kept playing over in mind until I fell asleep.

The morning light was bright from the early sun as it reflected off the drifts of sparkling snow. I looked around at the clothes I left spread out all over the floor and began to place a few back into the box. Bundled up, I slushed through melting snow on my way to the bus stop. I expected to see the lady who schooled me on the homeless, but she was nowhere to be found. I recalled the nearby shelter where she worked, and I headed out to find it. Along the way, I searched for the homeless mother and child I saw days ago, but like most of the street people, they disappeared, leaving only a handful of tough souls out braving the cold.

When I arrived at the shelter, I was surprised that it was locked. There was no access from the street, and I had to speak through an intercom.

“Can I help you?” The voice sounded like the woman from the bus.

“Uh..yeah. I have a box of clothes that I would like to drop off.” I said.

“Oh, good! I’ll be right there,” she said.

Minutes later, a heavy-set lady with purple and pink hair smiled at me as she unlocked the gate.

“Come in, honey. Come get something nice and warm to drink,” she said.

I told her that I couldn’t stay long but went in anyway. She went through another set of locked gates while she explained that those who live inside could leave anytime but it wasn’t open to just anyone off the streets. It was not just a shelter but also a safe place for families who were victims of domestic violence.

The kitchen had an aroma of fresh-baked bread and spices. She poured me a hot cup of coffee and handed me a pastry. As we strolled throughout the shelter, I heard children playing in rooms, but I didn’t see them. Occasionally, a woman walked by, curious as to who I was. The walls and ceilings were painted in vivid shades of reds, orange, and yellows, which gave it a cheery feel. While I stood listening to more explanations about the mission of the shelter, I felt a tiny, warm hand sip into mine. I looked down to find a little girl with a yellow dress and green tennis shoes looking up at me with a toothless smile. Soon I recognized the eyes of two familiar faces; the mother and small child that were homeless that cold, snowy day. No longer wet, cold, and dirty, I would have never known it was them.

I knelt and opened the box of clothes. The little girl pulled out items and shrilled in excitement, drawing attention to other children nearby. Before long I was surrounded by moms and small children picking out the ones that fit them and would serve them the best. I fought back tears as I watched precious memories of my mom and I slip away into the hands of strangers who didn’t know the story behind every shoe and dress. They didn’t recognize the smell of reminiscence, nor did they realize the role they played in my process of letting go.

When I said goodbye and walked outside in the melting snow, I noticed a light so brilliant that it looked like a tiny light bulb. As I got closer to it, I saw it was a single drop of water glistening at the very tip of an icicle that was soon to disappear. I was amazed at the magnitude of how that fragmented prism of light hung in a balance for so long and could be seen from far head. It made me smile.

I thought of how happy mom’s mementos meant to those children and it made me happy. I never knew their names and they never knew mine. That was not as important as what the clothes which I outgrew represented; the end of a journey for me and the beginning of one for them.

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