I Know Her

It is evening, the end of a long day moving my son into his new apartment. Returning the Uhaul truck, I turn right, up Cove Street.

A woman is walking down the street. Her hair is light brown and long, to the bottom of her shoulder blades. A little frizzy in this 60-70 degree early June evening air, in Portland, Maine. There is a pleasant cool breeze that catches it. She pushes her grocery cart filled with what I imagine everything she owns, heading for Marginal Way, where the other homeless pitch their tents.

Her name is Kathy. Kathy Evans. I don’t know her name. I am making it up because I decided, after waking up this morning thinking about her and crying over the fact that I can do nothing for her, that I could at least write a story about her. A story she will never read, but there will be an account of her life, that she matters, put out into the world.

Though we only passed each other for a brief moment, I felt like I knew her. Like she could have been a woman I shared being a mother with, to our young kids. Or we were students in college together. She and I could have shared easy laughs and exchanges about what moves us and makes us smile. She and I were easy friends. Though I did not know her, I did know her.

She has always been thin, but she’s lost ten pounds since living on the streets. While she is not a healthy weight, she is not dangerously malnourished. She is aware that it could happen and tries to eat at least one kind of fruit and/or vegetable every day. She still has a youthful glow on her face. She still has her good teeth. Her biggest fear is succumbing to despair and getting involved in the drug world that is so prevalent among the homeless in Portland. There is a growing number of homeless who just had a stroke of bad luck with housing. They don't start with a drug addiction. She’s taken her time to settle in for the night on Marginal Way, the street name that is not lost on her, for where the city has moved all the homeless.

"There are pros and cons to both Deering Park, where we used to be, and here. Deering Park was a bit more public, so it was more difficult to be assaulted there. But, because it was a bit more public, being homeless was more embarrassing. Then again, the homeless are noticeable but in a faceless kind of way, so there was a kind of anonymity. Rapes are common in both places, mostly at night. By 9 pm, most of the violent men are passed out for the night. That's why I am headed to the tent area now. It's safer now."

She notices a woman driving a U-Haul truck. "Probably returning it to the U-Haul Store on Marginal Way. She is alone, just like me. She looks tired—no doubt from a long day of moving. Maybe moving one of her children into an apartment." She smiles. "How nice." Their eyes meet. She notices her kind face. "Though she isn't smiling, exhausted from the day's work, I can tell she smiles easily, just like me. She imagines for a brief moment, "that woman could be someone I would be friends with, in different circumstances. We probably read the same books and laugh easily, at the same things. I bet her kids are grown kids, just like mine, and we'd enjoy hearing each other’s stories about them. She likes that the woman in the UHaul truck sees her when their eyes meet, just for a second. Really sees her. Not as some obstacle she needs to maneuver around. But as a real flesh and blood woman, just like her.

These women's kind faces mirror each other.

One woman pulls four wheels of a cart with everything she owns stuffed in it, while another woman drives four wheels of an empty truck that moved everything her child owns in it. They are different but not by much. In that brief moment, passing each other, moving four wheels, they are each other. And they are friends.