You were blind, but now you see

Late. Always late.

You curse your past self and the snoozed alarms, dashing across the street. Shirt untucked, cuffs loose, tie crammed into a half-shut briefcase, unbrushed hair caught in the wind.

Why do you do this to yourself? You'll have to buy breakfast (again), and lunch (again), because you were too late to have one and too distracted to make the other. Brilliant. You're a three-minute sprint from the bus when something up ahead catches your eye.

Or, someone.

It’s easier than you think to see a person wearing at least four mismatched upper layers of clothing in spring, half-broken sandals, pants that are only just being held up by a thin elastic cord, and an unshaven, dirty face, as something. Because if you don’t, then you feel guilty. Then it becomes that much harder to turn away.

And who has the time to help?

On a day like today? Definitely not you. You make to cross the street, when the blare of a horn startles you.

The steady stream of traffic forces you to stay on this side of the road and keep running, rather than wait and lose time.

Huffing as you jog, intensely aware that sprinting to the bus undoes the morning shower, you get closer and closer until finally, they see you, and you see them.

Just for a moment. And that’s all it takes.

Because now you've acknowledged them.

Damn.

Usually, if you spot them early enough, you cross the street, or put music on, or pretend to be talking to a friend on the phone. And walk on by. Anything to block them out, to pretend that you never saw them. You tell yourself that there are simply too many to help.

What difference would your coins or notes make anyway? They’d probably just spend it on alcohol or drugs. So you're actually helping them by not helping them.

Someone once remarked that if you help a homeless person and they don’t deserve it, then it’s charity. And if they do, then it’s justice. That’s all well and good, but they made their choices. People lie in the bed they make. Your conscience pipes up quietly and notes that this smells suspiciously like self-justification, but you quickly shut that down.

No time for pity.

But it’s too late now to avoid them, and your fingers fly from your pocket to your wallet. Maybe if you give them a few coins they’ll be grateful enough that you won't be bothered.

You'll be able to get on with your day without guilt settling upon your shoulders like a damp towel, heavy and cloying and suffocating.

As you approach the man he lifts his head up, and you can’t help but catch his eyes. They’re dulled by the acceptance of this life; of being reduced to nothing more than an object of pity or curiosity.

He puts his hands out, but it’s too late; you're already dropping the money into his plastic cup, and on your way. The handful of silver is clinks once, then, settles.

You'd slowed to a fast walk in order to give him the coins, and you're getting ready for a final sprint to the end of the street, hoping to still catch the 67, and in even more of a rush to get to work now, if only to clear your head from this, when you hear a quiet voice from behind you.

“Thank you. God bless”.

His voice is subdued and the tone muted, almost as if life has stamped down on his throat and forced out any ability to feel. Your legs keep moving, and you attempt to brush the thoughts off quickly, before they nestle themselves in your mind. But you can’t shake this feeling lodged in your insides, nudging at you that this isn’t right. That it’s not enough.

You feel it grow, spreading through you until you're unable to think about anything else.

And so, barely believing it, you turn around.

It was the hands. The image is stuck in front of your eyes, and you're unable to blink it away. They were lifted up, waiting for you. Pleading, asking, yearning. Not just for money, but for something more. And you were too uncomfortable to touch him.

You can’t believe it, but you're walking back over to him. He sits with his head bowed, his sign next to him.

Unread, and unseen.

You don’t really know what you're doing, but you do it anyway.

“Hi”.

He looks up, startled. He seems confused, recognising you as the young man who just moments before had rushed on by, pausing momentarily to put money in his cup.

What would he be doing back here?

You're asking yourself the same question.

You hesitate, then kneel down next to him. And this time, you really see him.

His hair is thick, a matted mess of muted brown. His clothes are stained and faded, and he smells, of desperation and despair. His face is worn and leathery, and his mouth is set in a hard line.

But his eyes have changed. They’re alive now- a little flash of colour amongst the grey. They're searching, probing, trying to understand your presence. Even though you don’t know it yourself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, not sure where to start.

He shakes his head. You can see a the scraps of a torn pizza box behind him, and various cans and bottles scattered on the pavement.

“I don’t have any more coins on me”. It’s the truth, and yet it feels inadequate.

He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice is different. Awake.

“That’s okay. I appreciate what you given me already”.

You sit there for a moment, and silence pushes in between the two of you.

The words fall from your mouth quickly but softly, before you even think them through, like a gentle rain that’s appeared out of nowhere.

“I know this isn’t what you want. I can’t even imagine what your life is like. I’m sorry I ran past you before, but I was late you see. Still am, actually”.

He breathes slowly, in and out while you wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn’t.

His gnarled and grimy hands reach out just slightly, and he looks down. Before you can think of germs or Covid or hygiene, you don't. You just reach back.

His grip is firm, and there is strength underneath the weariness. As he looks at you, you realise that this is likely to be as much real interaction as he has with people all day. No running and laughing in the playground, no phone calls to a loving partner, no hug from a best friend or jokes with work-mates at the bar.

And you start to get it. Every day, all day, people walk by. Just like you. In more ways than you understood before, just like him. They refuse to see him.

They don’t care enough to care.

They don’t look down on people like him. They look right through him, or not even at all. Easier that way, isn’t it?

Or they don’t see even see him as human. Because that would be too much. They see him as a pile of clothes, as a supermarket trolley half-filled with a broken life. As someone who made all the wrong choices.

Barely two minutes ago, that was you. Yet who are you to judge the value of a man’s life?

Some people stop, and give him what his sign asks for, but not what he needs. He needs this.

You look at him, and start to understand. He stares back at you unflinching, and smiles for a second. You see his remaining teeth, yellowed and somewhat cracked.

But you also see a man. A man who feels, breathes, and lives, even under the crush of a life like this. He has a mind, a heart, and a spirit.

Just like you. So you smile back.

“You aren’t invisible. And you do matter”. Your hand is on his shoulder, trying to reassure him as much as you can with those small words.

He puts his other hand on yours, and looks at you with the gaze of someone who hasn’t really looked in a long time.

"Maybe I'll see you tomorrow".

"Maybe you will".

You walk back down the road, the same person as you were a few minutes ago, but awake.

You miss the bus by four minutes, but it doesn’t matter. You haven’t given him a job, a loving family, or a home. You have so much, and he so little.

Looking at it on the surface, you haven’t been able to give him more than $2.70 in loose change and a few words. How can that that make any difference at all? You're not really sure yourself.

But maybe, just maybe, he'll feel seen. That he is still there.

And he may just have opened your eyes.