And now, “Jackie” has passed on.
With weakened knees and hobbled breath, I walked by your bench, the place where we had so many conversations. Tragically, it was to be your final home for the last three months of your life. It was eerie and disconcerting. Already another person without a home occupies it. Unlike your need for a walker, he relies only on a single cane to get around.
I still see you as I saw you last, three days before your death: Your grayish white hair was in a pageboy cut, your battered walker stationed in front of you like a guardian wall, your well-worn yet neatly kept bags that contained your life essentials were beside and under you. As always, you bore your 70-plus years of life with dignity and pride. Your eyes — piercing — shined with your keen intelligence.
On this quiet morning, our last conversation echoes within the aloneness of the deserted streets. Again, you list the reasons why you won’t accept my offers of shelter placement: too much pain of how you were treated, perhaps too much pride stood in your way. As usual we fell back on polite pleasantries, but also your biting insight on how your life turned.
Finally, when I asked if there was anything you needed, you said, “Orange juice.” Your last words to me were, “Thank you for the juice,” as I walked away. A chill skipped up my spine as I remembered waking you days before afraid that you might be dead. You looked so forlorn and vulnerable bent over on that bench that morning. I wasn’t off by much.
I respect your fortitude, your courage in the face of so many travesties. I know I would never have your courage if I were dealing with your painful disabilities and wounds that accumulated like so much stagnant rain. As a friend told me: “You were one tough broad.”
I know I will never pass that bench again without thinking of you. The trouble is, there are so many such benches in my memory. Already, your kind face, gentle voice and soulful eyes have found a place in my troubled dreams.
Rest in peace.
— Ken Williams has been a social worker for the homeless for the past 30 years. His writings and opinions reflect only his personal views. He does not speak as a representative for or on behalf of any organization with which he may be affiliated. He is the author of China White and Shattered Dreams, A Story of the Streets. He has just completed his first nonfiction book, There Must Be Honor.
Comments
