I watched an old man, long straggly grey hair and dirty clothes, pushing a grocery cart down the street. The cart was piled high with the detritis of this man's life. There were bags upon bags of clothing all crushed up and overflowing from them. There were metal things that could have been utensils or pots and pans. He struggled with the weight of what he was pushing and I thought how apt this simile was.
Whatever had forged his life to bring him to this point had broken him. He was a lost soul to the main society he walked in because he was so "different". I believe we don't fear people like him for what they are but we do fear what made them what they are. If it could happen to them it could happen to us. We, too, can be broken under certain circumstances.
My heart hurts for people like him but I don't have the slightest notion how I could help him. We shouldn't give beggars money (he wasn't begging) because that only feeds their addictions and not their bellies. I'm ashamed to admit I usually pretend they aren't there but the memory of this particular man will haunt me for a while.
He moved like a shadow along the street, looking for all the world like another species as he made his way. He didn't look at passersby and they looked beyond him as though he didn't exist. But he does, and he has a story.
We shy away from him because there, but for chance, go any one of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment