She didn't get the memo

I spend a lot of time on my balcony these days. From my "penthouse" condo. I get to mark the months by the switching out of the billboard, watch the sunset and the sunrise color each day no matter the season, no matter what is going on in my life or in the world, see the beautiful skyline, a beacon of stability, watch every firework display on Fourth of July or New Year's Eve without being stuck in crowds or worrying how I would get home. I also watch people stand at the bus stop waiting to pay two dollars and twenty-five cents to get on a crowded bus to go to work each morning. The numbers of those at the bus stop are getting smaller and the buses aren't nearly as crowded these days.

Last night, I chose to focus on the bench – the bench by the bus stop that features the words: “Church. Noun. A place that (crossed gives black and white advice out to say) gets life is gray.”

This bench advertisement was installed shortly after I bought my wedding dress. The dress was grey as was the theme of my wedding. I learned long ago that life is never black and white but many, many shades of gray. Seeing that bench reinforced that my chosen color scheme was a good one.

There was a woman on the bench last night. I've seen this poor black soul over the years clinging to her entire household that fits into a shopping cart. She interacts with her friends that only she can see and hear. I remember times when her internal conversations would get louder and louder and her dancing and writhing would get boisterous. She would bounce out of her bubble and into the once busy street. I used to wonder why the police didn’t drive past. The cop shop is only two blocks away. I would imagine they should pick up the woman who I was afraid she would get hit by a car. Over the years, the police never noticed her, the neighbors walking past didn't notice her. If I didn’t stop looking at my skyline and billboard and the sunsets and the sunrises and the fireworks to notice the going-ons of that bench, I too wouldn't notice. I notice, but I do nothing. Blame to go around and some belongs with me.

Last night, her conversation with psychosis got especially loud. She took a breath to have a coughing fit and then spit on the ground in front of her.

You see, she didn’t get the memo that coughing and spitting is bad. She didn’t see the PSAs and the memes sponsored by the mayor spouting "Stay Home Save Lives". She must have missed the governor's briefing yesterday at McCormick Place patting the team on the back for making ready an exclusive medical facility for the not as sick COVID patients who can be cared for by nurses who allegedly signed up for twenty-one days straight of twelve-hour shifts, being paid what did the reporter say? $128 an hour? Where do they get this bullshit? And the medical director did say "We're not worried about burnout."

I thought about bringing this woman on the bench a blanket last night and a thermos of chicken soup but I was afraid of getting too close. I usually ask for names when I promise to pray for people, but I don't know this neighbor's name. I'm not going to deny her right to her reality by making up a name for her. I do know she is somebody’s child. The name I will assign her in order to add her to my prayer list is "Child." Stay safe Child. Stay safe.