I was blind, but now I see

Late. Always late. I curse my past self and my multiple snoozed alarms as I dash across the street. Shirt untucked, cuffs loose, tie crammed into a half-shut briefcase, unbrushed hair caught in the wind.

Why do I do this to myself? I’ll have to buy breakfast (again), and lunch (again), because I was too late to have one and too distracted to make the other. Brilliant.

I’m a three-minute sprint from the bus when something up ahead catches my eye.

Or should I say, someone.

It’s easier than you think to see a person wearing at least four mis-matched 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 me. I make to cross the street, when the blare of a car horn quickly reminds me that I have eyes and should probably use them.

The steady stream of traffic forces me to stay on this side and keep running, rather than wait and lose time. Precious seconds will sneak by if I stop, and I need every one of them. The reports stuffed into my briefcase won’t file themselves, and I don’t need another email to pop up and remind me that they’re due by the end of the week. All of them.

Huffing as I jog, intensely aware that sprinting to the bus undoes my morning shower, and thankful for the black jacket covering today’s white shirt, I get closer and closer until they see me, and I see them.

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

Because now I’ve acknowledged them.

Dammit.

I don’t have time for this, today of all days. The man starts to reach out his hand while I’m still seconds away, and it’s enough time for me to grab for my earphones in my pocket. My fingers fumble but hit empty air; there’s no tangled wires this morning. Breakfast, lunch, and no music. Even better.

Usually if I spot them early enough, I put music on, or pretend to be looking at something else, or talking to a friend on the phone. And walk on by. Anything to block them out, to pretend that I never saw them. I tell myself that there are simply too many to help. You’d do the same thing right? I mean, you can’t give a dollar to every homeless person you see on the street…

What difference would my coins or notes make anyway? They’d probably just spend it on alcohol or drugs. So I’m actually helping them by not helping them. Someone once told me that if you help them and they don’t deserve it, then it’s charity. And if they do, then it’s justice. I mean that’s all well and good, but they made their choices.

My conscience pipes up quietly and notes that it sounds like self-justification to me, but I quickly shut that down. No time for pity.

But it’s too late now to avoid them, and my fingers fly from my pocket to my wallet. Maybe if I give them a few coins they’ll be grateful enough not to bother me. And by that I don’t mean harass me physically or verbally. I mean that I’ll be able to let it go and get on with my day without guilt settling on my shoulders.

As I approach the man, he lifts his head up, and I 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 stares almost blankly, and nods his head down in a gesture of thanks.

He puts his hands out, but it’s too late; I’m already dropping the money into his plastic cup, and on my way.

I’d slowed to a fast walk in order to give him my coins, and I’m getting ready for a final sprint to the end of the street, hoping to catch the 67 in time, and in even more of a rush to get to work now, if only to clear my head from this, when I hear a voice from behind me.

“Thank you. God bless you”.

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.

My legs keep moving, and I attempt to brush my thoughts off quickly, before they lodge themselves in my mind. It’s a busy day today. My portfolio is due Friday. I’m already running late.

I try and re-focus on the day ahead, and know that if I get the next bus, I’ll be fine. But I can’t shake this feeling that’s growing on me. Something is nudging at me that this isn’t right. That it’s not enough.

I feel it grow, spreading through me until I’m unable to think about anything else. And so, barely believing it, I turn around.

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

I can’t believe it, but I’m walking back over to him. He sits with his head bowed, his sign next to him. Unread.

I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do it anyway.

“Hi”.

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

What would he be doing back here? I’m asking myself the same question.

I hesitate, then kneel down next to him. And this time, I really see him. His hair is thick, a matted mess. 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. There’s something there, that wasn’t there before. They are searching, probing, trying to understand my presence. Even though I don’t know it myself.

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

He shakes his head. I can see 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 I feel sorry.

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

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

We sit there for a moment, and silence pushes in between us.

I can’t change his life in the way he would like. Not like this. Not right here. But maybe…

The words fall from my mouth quickly but softly before I even think them through, like a rustling rainfall 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. I was late you see. Still am actually”.

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

His gnarled and grimy hands reach out and grab mine. His grip is firm, and there is strength underneath the weariness. As he looks at me, I realise that this is likely to be as much 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 I start to get it. Every day, all day, people walk by. Just like me. 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. Wasn’t that me a second ago? Who am I to judge the value of a man’s life?

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

I look at him, and understand. He looks at me, and smiles. I see his teeth, yellowed and somewhat cracked. But I also see a man. A man who feels, breathes, and lives. He has a mind, heart, and soul. Just like me. I smile back.

“Please know that I see you now. You are here. You aren’t invisible. And you do matter”. I put my hand on his shoulder, and try to reassure him as much as I can with those small words.

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

“Thank you. And God bless you again”. This time, the words carry meaning. They flow from him to me with intent, as if he is willing the heavens themselves to open up right there and then, to pour down on us.

I walk back down the road, the same person as I was a few minutes ago, but awake.

I missed my bus by ten minutes, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not in a rush anymore. I haven’t given him a job, a loving family, or a home. All those things that we take for granted every day. What we took for granted. I have so much, and he so little. Looking at it on the surface, I haven’t been able to give him more than $3 in loose change and a friendly conversation. How can that that make any difference at all? I’m not really sure myself.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ve been able to help him see that he does matter. That he is there. And he may just have opened my eyes.