I haven’t written about Sheila because I don’t know what to do with Sheila.I met her and we had talks and coffee and then I watched as she was arrested at Starbucks.
Sheila was homeless.
I went and visited her in jail twice. Jacob and I took her a bible and sat across the glass from her and it felt forced.
I have never felt more helpless.
because Sheila is a nice story to tell.
but what now?
She was released from jail and I have no idea where she is.
I haven’t really looked.
Has my time been served?
Is there is statute of limitations for this sort of friendship?
Is she just a nice story to tell about that one time I befriended a homeless person?
I haven’t written about Argentina because I don’t know what to do with Argentina.
i came back to my life here after 2 months and found out that Argentina and what I encountered there don’t fit- there seemed to be a disconnect.
So I put it in my back pocket because that’s what you do with things you feel you should probably keep around but then usually forget about, like receipts and pennies.
But the thing about countries and people is that they don’t stay in your back pocket.
The pesky thing about families in South America and ladies without homes is that you can’t throw them away like you can pennies and pocket candy.
Those eyes demanding an answer of you belong to a boy in the barrio named Petey and those hands tapping you on the shoulder belong to the lady you prayed with in the desert and those arms outreached on the corner of the street belong to a woman who came and sat down across from you in Starbucks and now won’t leave you alone in your thoughts.
I guess what Im saying is that I’m not okay with Sheila being a nice story to tell about the homeless lady I bought coffee for, then brought a bible to in jail.
Two weeks after I met Sheila I gave her a card with a daisy on it and she said they were her favorite and she asked me why i had given it to her.
I told her it’s because we’re friends.
She gave me a look that I saw often from Sheila; a moment of understanding something or seeing something or thinking something that I was not. A moment of examination in her eye that always made me uncomfortable.
I told myself that her piercing gaze was just a part of the muttering to herself and came along with the territory of talking too loud and changing subjects mid-conversation.
I told myself that Sheila was looking at me like that because she was crazy.
But the thing is I think she knew.
She knew that with that card I was making a promise and with those words I was promising something I maybe didn’t understand. And maybe she didn’t trust that I meant.
Now I’m wondering if she was right.
Because I’m trying to figure out what to do with Sheila now that she is gone and I’m trying to figure out what to do with Argentina now that I have left its families and streets and smells and sounds an borders.
And I’m trying to figure out what to do with myself now that they follow me around wherever I go.
