From my window I can spot you, daily. You left your things behind; things you no longer need, things you outgrew, things you carried around and finally today, it became too much for you to carry.
Your footsteps barely carry your weight; it seems from up here, where I watch you visit this café; an oasis for your kind: their kindness, their non-judgmental service of free ice water, as cold as the Los Angelinos came to be; with their supermodel stares, as they meet and greet each other right next to you ; praising each other dogs, while you sit listening, your presence not sensed.
Is there such a thing as hope inside of you? Any expectation for kindness, a "Hello" perhaps, a sense of normalcy, of belonging to this city, of making through the night.
It's dark outside, as dark as the moment that parted you and yours. How long will your steps last when already burden by days and nights, by dragging yourself and your things across town looking for a place to rest.
If the life of a homeless person is not a testament of how human beings are coded for survival, even in the most abhorrent of circumstances.
At some point in your day, you seem to remember how they treat you here, behind the counter, the sense of normalcy and acceptance you must derive from this place to end up here nightly. Even if the reality is that we don't care; we don't acknowledge you, and perhaps it is the reason you come here.
There are so many homeless in Santa Monica now that our eyes have become accustomed to it; as irises adjusting to darkness. And if being around us, unnoticed, makes you feel less alone; well, it is the least we can inadvertently do.
