In Transit

There's a white woman in her 50s, I think, sitting across from me on the City bus. She's wearing a long, dirty, green coat, about three sizes too big, and far too warm for today's weather. Her grey-streaked hair hasn't been cleaned in weeks, and the smell suggests neither she nor her clothes have either.

She's making herself as small as she can. Her shoulders rolled forward, head down and her hands are gripping a small plastic bag with a few belongings in it on her lap. She leans away from the aisle and into the window and wall of the bus.

She sits still, not moving. Uncomfortably still, not trying to get comfortable. Her hands are shaking noticeably in her lap and her mouth and side of her face twitch randomly, almost like she's chatting about something the rest of us can't see. Shouldn't see.

I wonder how far I am from being her. How close was I, when I was really off-balance, living at the shelter. Watching homeless men openly despair, and broken kids tweaking and OD'ing on fentanyl in a horrifying seizure, carted away from the church dinner in an ambulance.

Have I escaped her suffering and state of being? Will I ever see that?

I want to touch her shoulder and say, "don't give up. Keep fighting. Keep moving," quietly so the rest of the bus doesn't hear, doesn't notice her more. But I don't. I know how big a trigger touch, or a stranger can be.

But really, I'm just not that generous. I'm selfish. I want her to fight, to make it in my mind, so that I can believe that I will. That I have a chance. It's my shoulder I'm aching to touch and it's my ear that wants to hear, "don't give up. Keep fighting. Keep moving," from myself.

From anyone.