I know too much about someone who sees me everyday, and looks right through me, as I am a stranger to her sober self. A woman lives up my street. She is drunk. All of the time.
Some days, she seems alright. She walks, and listens to music. Some days, her face is not her own. Replaced by an awful mask. Crazy eyes, and alone. She begs strangers for rides to the state store. She falls on the street, and narrowly misses being hit by cars. Someone always comes to her rescue. I see her, clutching a bag. Carrying it like a genies lantern, in a rush to get it home, behind closed doors, and wish away.
I saw her yesterday. She saw me, and even though, I helped her up off the ground of my driveways stones', and took her home one summers day, she did not remember me. She was in my gutter once. With a bag of wine and vodka. Glass clanging loudly. Bruised and bloody. It was the most pitiful site. She cried. I cried. And I felt I should look away. It was more than I should know about her.
There were pumpkins and scarecrows displayed at her door. A sign with the house number, and a front porch. Manicured bushes and mums. And a terribly sad soul , trying to make it look OK. Trying to blend in.
She was walking up the street today, clutching her bag. Cradling it. She broke my heart. David said, "what should we do, as citizens of this earth, to help her". I don't really know, I thought.
I hope tonight, she is asleep on this cold November night, surrounded by sparkles and light.
Let her be lovely.