Relieved in another work day done, I stepped outside of the comfort of my dry, heated work place to find clumps of snow so large and falling from the sky that I was in disbelief. Although having a personal distain with Old Man Winter, I could not contain my wonderment and awe from these crystal clear snowflakes falling from the sky and changing a once amourous landscape of colourful colours to a blanket of frosty white. The first snowfall of every winter seems to transport me back in time as memories of my childhood wash over me and that familiar, yet always new feeling of being reborn. Forgotten, if only for a brief time, are the everyday frustrations of another day in the life.
Sitting there, my mind darts from one thought to another
toiling in the trivial while the truck slowly warms. Then I am off. The trek
home to my city will be a long one. It always is. As with my personal story, my
work too avails the life of a gypsy. I take my place with the rest of the
home bound mob rushing to embrace whatever waits for me if anything at all. I routinely
submit to this routine often amazed that I arrive home having rarely remembered
the journey. Getting out of the city is a painstaking exercise often involving
many muttered insults for those sorts on the road who should never be allowed
such a privilege of driving a one ton piece of metal and rubber. With the in-climate
weather, the trip home will be even more mundane today. Or so I thought.
Travelling along at a snail's pace, I approach an
intersection with a red light. While waiting for the light to turn green, my
attention is caught by a person standing alone on the medium separating the
masses on their way to their safe havens of comfort. Initially, the figure is
hard to identify due to the heavy snowfall. But as eyes adjust, I see it is a
woman bundled up to brave the cold and holding a sign to oncoming traffic.
Squinting, I try and focus on what her sign reads and then instantly feeling
deeply saddened when reading the words, "Homeless Can You Help?" I
have seen this many times before and still with that uneasy feeling every time.
It is as if I am suddenly aware of my own personal failure to know I live in a
world that could allow such a thing. At that moment, all that weighed on my
mind dissipated and was immediately replaced by what I can only describe as a
feeling I would give anything to never have to feel again. The light turned
green.
I know what I need to do. I know what my responsibility
is. Yet some sort of defence mechanism takes hold of me as if justifying what I
am about to do. “She is a drunk. She is a drug addict. She is lazy and a
useless drain on our society”, I told myself.
I didn’t have much to give. I would have more and would give more if
family law had not defrauded me to serve their collective and convenient
agendas. “It is not my fault”, I stammered out loud! I was worried about next
month and the month after that. I was confident that such reassurances of my
limitations to help would ease my pesky conscience. It did not. I drive on by
and continue on my way home. A home Depot parking lot is to my right. Then
there is a Walmart. Then I pass a gas station. And even a beer store and I
contemplated purchasing a six pack for after I arrived home. But I just drive.
I even tell myself that because I care, that is more than most. I stopped short
of patting myself on the back for at least caring. As with many brief moments
of our lives, I was confident that this moment would be swallowed up in collage
of meaningful and useless memories and then soon forgotten. I was soon to find
out that I was to be mistaken.
The days and weeks went by and I found myself thinking
about that woman. Each time I drove by her it seemed easier to just drive by
her. Everyone else did. And as it always does, the holidays seemed to silently
creep upon me and then suddenly jumped up in my face reminding me that I had
too many obligations to tend too with too little time left. When leaving the
grocery store one night, I slipped a five dollar bill into that little red pot
for the Salvation Army. As I did my thoughts were of that woman. Maybe she
would be the beneficiary of that contribution. I truly believed it would ease
my conscience. It did not. I put a five dollar bill in that little red pot
every time I walked by it. And I walked by it often. Eventually I put more into
that little red pot during Christmas than I would have ever given that woman
had I originally stopped to help her. As of yet I still have not come to terms
with what that says about me. Perhaps I am afraid of the truth. And fiction
seems to always have a way of making more sense.
Weeks later and while driving home from work one day I
did not see that woman. In fact, I never did see her again after that. But I
wondered about her. But I did not want to know what happened to her unless it
was a happy ending. We humans can be odd that way. We are the most evolved
species on this earth and yet, that basic instinct of caring for another too
often escapes us. And to this day I think about that woman more times than I wish
for. And I'm not yet sure what that says about me. I am hopeful that it means
that there is hope for me and perhaps for our world that one day we will solve
this solvable problem.
It is a frigid December night when I finally find that
balance of emotions that allows me to add this story to my collection. The
patio window rattles and shakes. Outside the snow is falling and an unusually
strong, angry northern wind rips across this sleeping town. The temperature
well below freezing and everyone I know will be snuggled in warmth. Another mean season has arrived. I look out the window sipping on a glass of wine but
I see no one about. Yet I know they are out there. It seems that to be out of
sight is to be out of mind. And for that I am sometimes grateful.
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