He walked quietly down the street, bent over from operations he had suffered through trying to fix damage done to him in combat, as he honorably served his country. A growl came from his empty stomach, having not had anything to eat for over a day. People passing him by stared at him as if he was an alien, someone that did not belong amongst them. The damage to his left leg made it painful for him to walk just one step but he kept on. He refused to give in to his pain and discomfort, hoping that one day something would happen. He clutched to his hope of good fortune, like a scavenger guarding his last morsel, with each breath he took.
His caloused hands with wrangeld fingers were covered by a glove with no fingers. The palms of the gloves had been worn out when he had found them rummaging through a garbage dumpster. He had a path that he followed every day, looking for scraps of food, clothing, or anything he could use for comfort. His jacket was the tattered and faded remnants of a once green jacket that he had worn with pride, serving his country in combat. The pants he wore were tattered and torn, pieced together with string that he scrounged from garbage. Once in a while on his walks he would find clothing that had been thrown out by others way more fortunate then he was. Even if he could not use the items he would take them and pass it around to his friends who were also in need. He made one point and that was to never leave a mess where he had been. When looking through others trash he would hear a vehicle approaching and jump into the shadows, praying it was the not the police.
The warmer months were a lot easier for him then the bone chilling winters that came to the area. Many times he would curl up shivering, waiting for sleep to come, wondering if he would make it through the night. During the winter he would always search for warm places to lay down. He would even pull boxes or rags over him to preserve the heat his body afforded him. He watched with tears flowing as many of his friends succumbed to the brutal winter weather, too frail to take care of themselves. When he would lay there at night, with pains of hunger so violent he thought his stomach was tearing apart, he would close his eyes and think of the past.
The past when he would hold his children, loving them with all his heart. He could see them in the backyard playing as the sun beat down on them, watching them from the large sliding glass doors of his house. He could see his beautiful wife as she stood there before him. Her hair would shimmer in the light and her eyes sparkled like that of the stars. He would feel her touch, the warming tenderness that he remembered, brought some comfort to him. He remembered that day he walked out the door in his uniform unknowing if he would ever return. He raised his trembling hand and touched his lips, the same lips his wife had kissed that very day. War had changed him so much and when he came back home everything there had changed for him. His home, his loving wife and children, people in town and even those where he had worked could not recognize the soul that had come back.
Drugs had become a way of life for him. In them he hid from the pain of war and the physical pain all his injuries had caused. He watched his life slip away from him as he could no longer be relied upon to hold a job. His wife would work long and hard trying to provide for the family and at night there would only be arguements, filling the void where love and passion once lived. His children feared him when he would move towards them. Fear filled them from the harsh words he spoke and the sometimes brutal punishment he used to discipline them. A loving father and husband, caring person and loved soul had turned into a vile, vindictive and horrible man. He even had a hard time excepting himself for what he had become. Many times he had thought of committing suicide but was to afraid, stopping him from following through with any of the plans.
Down a darkened alley he now walked, behind restaurants and bars lining both sides. I moved along behind him wondering where his journey was taking him. I quickly dipped into a doorway's shadow when he looked back, praying he did not see me. He stopped by each pile of garbage and searched, listening carefully for anyone coming. Many times he had been stabbed by others for things that he had found while scavenging. Up and down the alleys he walked, finding nothing on this night. Slowly he made his way down the last alley to his home that he had built. Another night he would go to sleep with no food in his stomach, praying that tomorrow would be a better day. He saw his home come into sight as the stars in the sky told him it was late.
He walked up to the large box and sat down beside it. The hard ground softened by the pile of old newspapers he had there. He sat there thinking of all the good memories he had, as he did every night before laying fown to sleep. A smile slowly grew on his lips, camouflaged by the shaggy beard and mustache that had grown. The hair that was matted from the days sweat he pulled back and tied with a piece of shoelace he had found, on one of his journeys. Into his box he crawled, lowering the flap he had made behind him. There in the darkness he laid, listening to the sound of the city all around him. He closed his eyes, his head laying on a pillow of old rags. He reached down and pulled an oily old tarp up over his shoulders and waited for sleep to come.
Somewhere in the night sleep came to him, the last sleep that he would ever know. A permanent sleep now filled this once brave man who had served his country with pride. He had taken his last breath on God's earth as he laid there. No one even knew he had died or was dead as no one cared. This had been the end of a life of a husband, father, soldier and giver to those in need. Days would pass before his body would be found and removed from his cardboard home, partially eaten by rats that had found him. His funeral was that like many other of the homeless and unwanted. A simple grave with no marker and only the homeless friends he had made there to say farewell. In the group one simple voice could be heard as his funeral ended, "If only someone had cared, if only they had cared."
(C) Tall Mountain Dreamer June 3, 2007
