My brother wrote this story about meeting with a poor woman-it made me think a lot about how we interact and how we "should" interact with others...maybe it will make you think too?
She was in my path, I could not avoid. I was on my way out of the hospital after some tests. But averted eyes failed me as she began to talk, ask, and I acknowledged. Her teeth looked like they hurt, as she crunched on Cheetos. Age had born down on her, gray hair wiry straight, dark yes clouded, weathered skin, teeth worn, some missing. She spoke, but I could not understand. Again? She probably needed money. Little else makes me squirm inside like such questions, face to face, in the reality of the person. She said her mother had just died. Four hours ago, I later found out. She needed the bus, money for the bus. I stood there, mute. I listened, not comprehending. She said her name, and extended her hand. I shook it, saying my name. She explained she needed to get out to Ballston, to take the bus and the metro, where her brother and sister were staying in a hotel, to bring them back to the hospital. She said she hated being poor, that she couldn’t do anything, probably that she had to ask someone, me, for enough stinking money to take the bus home the day her mother died. She said she had to be strong, to carry the load, but she felt so weak. She didn’t know if she could do it, but she had to be strong. She grieved, but she didn’t cry.
She mentioned ten eighty several times, but I could not figure out if this was the bus line or the dollar amount. Wading through her words, through my reactions, the need for clarification did not long stay in my mind. Did her story made sense, yes, was she dangerous, no, crazy, no, but be careful. I was suspicious, and concerned. She appeared distraught. I stood there. Her mother was 80 and she died of congestive heart failure. The heart disease was not new. Gloria said praise Jesus, thank you Jesus when I stayed with her. So I asked if I could pray for her. She said of course. So I prayed a good prayer, with care, while trying to avoid my own insidious self-righteousness. I finished the prayer, and we continued walking, shuffling, to the bus stop. It was only twenty feet away. I ask her if I could give a ride, her there, them back. She said no, just the bus, and then to metro. She was walking slow, stopping, starting again, face downcast. I asked her if she was going to have a funeral. She said yes, that her mother had had insurance. She had to be strong, had to be strong, no one else would. She sat down at the bus stop.
I couldn’t tell if she wanted me to stay with her, so I stayed, standing. She beckoned me to sit down. I felt the eyes of others at the stop on me, then off as I glanced at them. Her voice was rough, scaly, and her words, still hard to understand. A phone rang. It was her mother’s, in her bag. She said to her brother, rasping as she did, that she was taking the bus back to the hotel. Her mother had lived in the hotel, she told me, and now her brother, sister, and she were staying there. In a mixture of pain, sorrow, she said they were staying in one room.
She asked if I had a phone. I said yes, expecting she’d ask if she could use it. She looked through her bag, gave me a pen with Cheeto dust on it. She gave me a piece of paper, and said, your number? I hesitated. She looked at me again. Again I hesitated. She gently took it back from me, with a look of sadness mingled with frustration. To invite you to the funeral, she said. We sat in silence.
Twice she said is the bus coming. Twice I looked over my shoulder, and said no. I asked her if she had the chance to talk with her mom before she died. She said yes. We waited. The bus came, and she said again said ten eighty. I only had three dollars in my wallet. I had just gone out to lunch. The bus was there. She said ten eighty, again ten eighty, and I understood. Later, I realized it must have been to cover the return trip of her, her brother, and her sister. So I gave her three dollars. Again, she spoke a sound of sadness mingled with frustration, and she got on the bus. I walked slowly away. I then realized I did not have enough to pay for parking, so I went to the ATM in the hospital lobby, and took out a twenty.
NEW! Cocoon yourself in revolutionary comfort.
