She’s illuminated by the streetlight above us, the jacket hanging off her thin body. She’s talking to me about my eyes and the dress I’m wearing until she comes a little closer. Her hands are moving quicker than her words and she asks for some change for a muffin.
I am so quick to classify her by her lack of a home, until that night, under the streetlight, I ask her her name.
And she’s no longer a person who lives on the street –
she’s a woman who has a heart, a story,
A name that means princess.
And in a moment my heart changes, and love overflows. Compassion. The words that have been following me for days – what if she’s doing the best she can? What if? Would I see her differently? Would I offer her the bus tokens in my purse, the only change I’m carrying?
I do. I do. And it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
So I hold her close and I pull her in to hug her. Three times. And she holds onto me, and I onto her and for a brief moment it feels enough.
And for a moment we are just two women
doing the best we can.