Dear Anonymous,
There is a woman who gathers backpacks for us. Literally drops off 20 or so at a time. She does this honoring her daughter who spent time on the street. Who died of overdose this year. Thank you #maggiesmission. Those backpacks fly out of my car. Thank you.
Mike snagged this one this morning and showed us why....his first tattoo from age 13. A devil. And the backpack was a match.
He had been out all night. No bathrooms available. Sometimes things don't go so well. He needed a change of clothes when I arrived. Can you imagine?
Meanwhile socks. Socks. Socks.
I have not seen him for a couple of weeks.
Dear Anonymous,
I have not seen him for a couple of weeks. Usually does not bode well. Isolation. Ghosting. Generally not a healthy place. This morning he is here. Shows up. Humble. Quiet. Was in the hospital. 'I did a bunch of bad stuff. My cousin died from an overdose and I took a bunch of Clonopin. I wanted to die.' And he tried. His girlfriend found him blue on the floor. Hospital stay of two days. Released. Sounds like he has some follow up work, hopefully with a tremendous mental health conselor (my hope and prayer). Being in contact with family as a result of his cousins death (his cousin was a father figure to him) is cause for great angst and stress.
He is showing me a recently redone tattoo. It covers a white supremacy tattoo that he got as a very young man in prison. He hasn't identified with it for a long time. He asked the tattooist to cover it with The St. Jude's Hospital for Children Logo, but that didn't work out. Instead a big heart. For his big love, his girl...and the smaller cut out heart is for his children. The word LOVE is written above it. 'I tried to pay the tattooist, 'cuz someone else helped me with the cost. But he wouldnt take it. He asked me what organization he could donate to on my behalf. So, St. Jude's will get that money....'
Housing is a piece of the puzzle for folks experiencing homelessness. But from my eye, today, filled with tears it is so much more that that. It is grief. It is trauma. It is unmitigated pain.
I place the medicine bag that the Maine Wabanaki REACH program this weekend offerred me a chance to make. I t was him that I had had in mind as it was filled tenderly with sage, tobacco,sweet grass and cedar. Placed it around his neck. Hugged. Left chest to left chest so that I could avoid that painful tattoo area, and so that our hearts could beat together...heart to heart, if just for a moment.
He walked off with bags of your goodies : socks, scarves, coloring books to dispense to his 'family'. Thank you.
He says : I feel better doin' stuff for others.'
Amen, my friend. Amen.