March-ing to May

Part I 

       I sat outside of the building on a lone bench, tears overflowing like a flooded river, 

shivering with the cold and shaking with exhaustion. A car pulled up beside me and a man 

got out of the passenger side with a cigarette in one hand and his life in the other. The door 

slammed and the car pulled away, leaving the man to smoke his cigarette in solitude by the 

sniffling me.

       “You’re pretty cute, you know,” the bald, musky man croaked after a sliver of silence.

       A puff of cigarette smoke escaped his lips as he assured me that he “wasn’t trying to hit 

on me or nothin’.”

       I was a shell, as I sat on a bench next to a man I didn’t know, tears streaming down my

 face, gazing blankly at the geese gawking at one another in the pond ahead of me. All was 

quiet except for the occasional exhale of smoke and the sniffles that escaped my weary soul.

       I felt his eyes land upon my red, puffy cheeks, yet I was too raw to allow myself to look 

back. I felt an instant connection to my eccentric bench companion, even in my broken state.

       I heard him take a deep, resolute breath.

       “I’m…I’m just tired.” His hoarse voice penetrated the silence. “I let my son down. He’s the

 one that drove me here, ya know?”

      I snuck a look at him as he took another inhale, exhale on the cigarette.

      “Drink because I’m depressed. Can’t get out of it. Feel stuck. I don’t know what—I just…

for my son. I have to get help. Again. Alcohol, it does things to you. It started off with one, and

 then it was two and then only hard liquor worked. I haven’t had a beer in a half hour —look. 

Look at my hand.”

       His strong arm extended towards me, hand shaking as if in an earthquake.

       My eyes finally met his. I knew now—he understood.

       I spoke, tentatively.  

       “I’m here because I don’t know who I am…why I’m here—what…I think I’m depressed…I

 guess…and school. I just—.”

       I broke down again and had to look away, my brain a treadmill going too fast.

*  *  *

She came bounding into the room.

     Grabbing a towel and washcloth, she left, her matted red-dyed hair trailing behind.

     Later she sat in the corner of the large room, walls surrounding not only her body, but also

 her very being—her heart.

Unwelcoming, menacing.

     She had teeth that were cracked and yellowed, yet had brilliant, beautiful green eyes that

 penetrated deep.

“This is my third time in here, okay?” she said to no one in particular.

An eerie, haunted laugh escaped her.

“Can’t stay off the drugs.”

She licked her lips, running her nails through her hair.

     “I’m 31,” she said through her childish sky blue Aeropostle hoodie and regret at lost years.

*  *  *

The anxiety-ridden wife who desired a divorce out of an emotionally abusive marriage yet

    wanted to do “what the Bible said to do—stay married no matter what.”

The track star who had to take a year off school after running her dreams into the ground.

The unprepared pregnant woman, talking to herself to keep the loneliness at bay.

The elderly woman who made her own business and was hiring others with the 

    enthusiasm of one who dared to aspire for greatness.

The emptiness of his gaze, a teddy bear.

       -All raw, stumbling for solid ground.

Part II 

     The grass grows between the sidewalks in little clumps.

     I like these best.

     The grass, vying for attention, peeking its head beneath the slabs.

     “Don’t forget me. Beneath this façade of concrete, I am here.”

     The rawness of one’s existence.

Part III

     I kick a rock down the neglected road in inner city Akron, picking up waste along the 

cracked pavement—beer bottles, empty bags, cardboard.

     He helps me, picking up one piece at a time and bringing them back, longing for 

affirmation—a sweet child.

    We pass boarded houses and rap-rumbling cars containing people with gazes hard and 

weathered.

     Their stares are like concrete. We walk along the grass.

*  *  *

“This is the heart of the slums,” he tells me, pointing me to the jail.

The rehabilitation center on our right, on our left the homeless shelter.

“Hi Pete!” he calls to one across the street with a heavy coat and a single bag of 

possessions.

“Hey, hey!” he replies, smiling. Neighbors.

We walk by other people from the neighborhood as well, all guarded, own agendas.

Concrete.

“Oh! There’s the community center,” he states, “for those getting treatment for mental 

illnesses.”

     I met some attendees of the community center at the Porch the week before. They insisted

 on buying me a cream soda because I had never had one. We talked about roller coasters 

and laughed loudly at each other’s fears of heights. They asked me about college. He told us

 about truck driving. They complained about the Center serving baked beans—again.

My tour of the block is over. We go back to the Porch.

She comes up to me and I hug her, seeing in her wide-open eyes that something is 

wrong.

“How are you?” A question usually followed by “Good.”

But here, there is honesty. The cracks in the concrete.

“I’m homeless now. Spent the last few days in the shelter but it…it freaks me out. The people 

in there freak me out. Had to go to the hospital because I got so screwed up. Started thinkin’ 

bad things.”

She looks at me for reassurance and all I can do is give her another hug and my story.

Part IV

In them I see me.

In their pain, my own.

Concretes of wealth, sexuality, nations, gender, age

All replaced by the realization of our common humanity.

Oh, compassion.

The realization that under all the concrete I put up and

The concrete that my neighbors put up

And under the concrete facades of America and Iraq and Mexico

The beautiful realization that

We. Are. All. Grass.

So raw and irreversibly

Human.

A simple realization like that, well…

It’s enough to drive a person insane.