A WORN SPOT ON THE PAVEMENT

I can't sleep... I sit motionless, in front of an abandoned brick storefront, occupying the same spot of pavement, for the longest six months of my life. I keep my eyes cast downward, focusing on the gaping hole in the toe of my frayed sneaker, so as not to notice people passing by, staring so blatantly. I pretend these stares are warranted because I am an attractive human being, even though I know differently. These stares are really an inquisition as to why a young woman is sitting here, without a home to call her own, with an old, rusted coffee can set out before her. I loathe these stares and have learned to just close my eyes and envision myself blending into the bricks so passersby don't take note of my grime stained sweater and tattered jeans. My hair is stringy and oily and smells of bus fumes. Regardless, my struggling pride forces me to rake it back with frail fingers, fastening it with a rubber band rolled off of someone's daily newspaper. I keep my arms crossed, with my hands tucked under the folds of my armpits. My fingers are cracked and stained from rummaging through trash, and my cuticles are raw and torn. I am ashamed, but still desperate enough to put myself on public display for a dollar.

To the right of me sits a torn shopping bag, protecting everything I own. My possessions would fit in the average persons' junk drawer. Nonetheless, its contents are an important part of my survival: a shredded, gallon-sized Ziploc, which I use to store food in, if I am fortunate enough to find extra; a book of matches from the local convenience store, to protect my hands from frostbite; and a primary colored beach hat, found abandoned in the park, which I wear at night to keep heat from escaping out the top of my head. At the very top of the bag sits the most important thing I own, a well-worn bible, King James version, with a missing front cover. I found it several months ago, one of many, sitting in a box outside of St. Anne's Church, marked "Free, please take one and God Bless". Every morning, as soon as the sun is up over the horizon, I reach for my bible and read a few verses. I don't understand a lot, but deep down inside, I feel it gives me the strength and courage to face another day.

Every evening, when the darkness conceals my embarrassment and the crowds have dwindled down, I scavenge. Supermarket dumpsters can be the most rewarding. An over-ripened banana or expired package of hot dogs puts butterflies in my stomach, with the anticipation of reaching satiety. I glance into my coffee can and can count how much is in there without dumping it out. I likely won't eat today, but not knowing when my next bite will be is something I have slowly become accustomed to. Scraping together enough money for just one good meal a day would suffice and restore some self-dignity, but here I am, trembling lips touching moldy food scraps, and taste buds repulsed by its rancidness.

Every two weeks I slither past a locked gate, into the community swimming pool, and undress in the cool, brisk, night air. It has become my bathtub, my baptismal. The water is cold, but the need to rinse the stench from my body outweighs the discomfort. I have nothing to dry off with and clench my teeth as I re-clothe my dripping body with the same soiled sweater and jeans. On the surface I don't look clean, but I feel refreshed from within and my spirit is renewed. When I think of things I am fearful of, dying in filth is towards the top.

Friday is my favorite day of the week. I leave the familiarity of my sidewalk and venture down to the park. I peel the sneakers from my feet and let the grass blades tickle my toes. It's the only soft thing my body has to touch. There's a bench I like to sit on, right next to the children's playground. I sit quietly, trying not to draw attention to myself. What a delight to be a child again, to experience such innocence again, to capture genuine laughter again. It's difficult for me to recall the last time laughter bellowed from my belly. When I sit here, children approach me. They are not judgmental. To them I am an adult, a woman, just like any other. If I asked a child for a dollar, their unselfishness would offer it to me, without hesitation, with eagerness to please.

Further past the playground, I watch a little girl, picnicking with her mother. Deep sorrow surfaces from within, paralyzing my entire being. When looking back on my life of 34 years, and thinking of all the things I have regretted, not having a child always comes first to mind. The realization that I will never hold a newborn to my chest leaves me grief stricken. It's unfathomable to think about. Yes, logic tells me it's a blessing that I don't have a child depending on me. I certainly have no way of providing for one and could never guarantee the kind of life he or she would be so deserving of. Still, it doesn't make my yearning any less.

I don't bother asking people for help anymore. I know once they set eyes on me they think I need to "get a life". If they knew what kind of life I left behind they might be more compassionate, more concerned over just how I ended up here. Perhaps it's easier to simply glance my way with scrutiny and hastily pass by in disgust. They don't understand that in a blink of an eye, it could be them sitting on this dirty sidewalk with nowhere to go. Unfortunate circumstances don't discriminate.

It's sad to feel lonely. It's equally sad to be utterly alone. Companionship can be a simple thing to have, yet something I haven't had the luxury of having in quite some time. A friendly greeting, a warm smile, a gentle touch on the shoulder would mean more to me than the couple of bucks lining my coffee can. I will never get used to being treated like a leper.

The honest truth is... I am dying. The cause of death isn't going to be starvation, or frostbite, but rather the brain tumor that has been swelling inside my head. There is no treatment for the destitute. There is no help for the unlucky. My obituary will not appear in the morning paper because I am a nobody. One day, all that will remain in front of this storefront is an empty coffee can and a worn spot on the pavement. Who will be the unfortunate one to come across my cold, lifeless body? Perhaps it will be someone who had frequently passed by, once upon a time, and offered up one of those pitiful looks. Will they be overcome with guilt? Will they feel shame? Will they wonder if I might have lived one more day had they given me the tuna sandwich they really didn't want anyways, or the unused blanket, taking up space in their linen closet?

I've always believed that in the "good ol' days" the world was full of compassion. Now, people don't have time for compassion. Kind souls, offering sincere benevolences, have been tossed in the back seat, replaced by angry minds and calloused hearts. No one will miss me when I am gone.

So, here I continue to sit, an obstacle in everyone's hurried way, a thorn in everyone's rose colored glasses. With each passing person I pray, not for a coffee can overflowing with dollar bills, or a fancy hotel room with a clawfoot tub and oceanside view. I pray that someone will stop and ask me my name. I pray that someone will want to call me their friend. I hope that certain someone comes along soon. I can't sleep, knowing I may die alone...