my homeless person

She didn't know she was mine or maybe she did (and does). I could easily believe, sometimes, that the homeless can read minds. Maybe it's how they become homeless in the first place. The weight of all those thoughts could drive a person insane.

Anyhow, every day on my drive to work, which is about 23 miles or so, I pass through the intersection of 43rd avenue and McDowell. To my right, as I head south to I-10, there is a bus bench. Behind the bus bench, was the dwelling of my homeless person. I write "was" because when I drove by today, it was gone and so was she.

I call her mine, but I know that she was not really mine. She looked like she'd had a tough time. Some days we would make eye contact as I drove by, so I know she knew I knew she was there. At first, over the summer, I would notice her sitting on the water main at the corner of 43rd and McDowell. She looked like she was directing traffic with her mind. Maybe she was. Maybe she kept us all safe from the disaster that ruined her life.

It's presumptious of me, I know, to assume her life was ruined. Maybe living behind a bus bench on 43rd avenue was exactly what she wanted to do. Could very well be and who am I to knock it? I was curious as to what she ate, what she drank, and how she survived.

She is not young, nor is she old. Where did she go? Did someone or some entity make her leave or did it get too cold? I will probably never know, but I will, in a weird way, miss seeing her on my drive to work.