homeless cathy

There were three to-go coffee mugs stickily perched on the table to which she was bellied up, but of course, none of them were hers. Her glazed over stare was barely broken as i said hello. I gave her a gentle shake on the shoulder to pry her from whatever held her in this state of melancholy. "Cathy," I said, "how are you?" "Oh, I don't know..." and her voice trailed off as if she was sorry she had begun to speak at all. I made contact with her eyes though there was little contact made with the soul inside of her rag adorned body. We sat in silence for 5, 10, 30 minutes maybe. It was slightly uncomfortable, yet the same as it always is when sitting with Cathy at the park, or outside the coffee shop, or on the bench where she sleeps just around the corner from my apartment building. Despite the 30 something degree weather and the fact she probably can't feel her fingers and toes, and probably hasn't for days, she usually sports a smile that immediately sparks a smile on me, too. Tonight was different. I asked her a series of questions, as I usually do, receiving one word answers, but I couldn't even pry that out of her. She looked sad. Defeated. And even willing to say so.

I finally asked her how old she was. I've been dying to know. I've been guessing her weathered face looks anywhere between 50 and 75. She guesses she's somewhere in her 40's. That's all she knew. And like any normal woman, she was appalled that I could think she looked over 50. She doesn't care what I think about her sense of style and that she's wearing clothes from three decades ago. Or the fact she sleeps outside every night and has been homeless for more years that even she can count. Or the fact she's had no morsel of food in her belly at all today. No, she is worried that she may look over 50.

The evening resulted in the eating of gourmet tacos which I fetched from Salsaritas, a small restaurant down the road. It was the only hope we had, short of praying for divine wisdom, of course. I had to convince her she was worth a taco. How many times do you get to say that in your life? "You are worth a taco to me." "Wait, I mean, YOU are worth MORE than a TACO, but I mean tonight you are worth me going to get some tacos." What started out as sincere turned into laughter as I backpeddled my finely tuned words into a puddle of moosh. And for a moment, she smiled. She looked content. At least, for the moment.