It's cold, but not too cold -- not for someone who's had a hot shower and is clothed in top-of-the-line gear. But it seems bitter cold for a night under the bridge on the bike path. But her cart is there, the one sheathed in black plastic, and she is sitting not far away in the morning sun. Her parka is pink -- almost the pink of mine. But hers has a hood that's pulled tightly around her face. She's never looked at me nor have I ever heard her make a sound. I don't really even know what she looks like. About the only thing I know is that she has a neatly organized cart and it's almost always parked under the last bridge before the bike path splits taking bikes to the west side of the river, leaving the pedestrians on the east. I ride by everyday, well, almost every day, on my way to school. I have missed only a few days, a handful when it was raining or snowing or just too cold and icy to ride. And she's there almost every day -- only a handful of days has she been somewhere else. A couple of those days it was in the low 20s and I assumed she had gone to the shelter. Then I fantasized that she had gone on vacation or to visit family. These thoughts of family and vacation magnify the gap between us. And yet there's some connection it seems. Or is there? Perhaps in my mind, but not in hers. Does she notice my brilliant yellow jacket the way I notice her pink one? I don't know, but I don't think so. She makes me ponder how difficult it would be to live her life, to consider what a homeless person does all day, to wonder about basic bodily functions on the street. But I don't want to ask about her life, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to satisfy my curiosity.
It's the Christmas season -- that time of year when giving is on so many minds. And I'd like to give her something. But I probably won't because I don't know how. I'm too locked in a life that is so dfferent from hers, that I can't get out of it far enough to be of any help.