Old Mary

I used to walk among the unseen,
where shadows curled in quiet defeat.
The homeless, stripped of all but breath,
their eyes hollow,
their movements resigned.

There was Mary,
thin as a whisper,
who never asked for much—
just a spot to exist.
They wanted me to move her on,
but she listened
when I explained my limits,
and together we’d find a place
she could stay awhile.

It wasn’t much—
a brief exchange,
a moment of understanding—
but it felt like something
in a world that offered her nothing.

Mary is gone now.
Her obituary was short,
her name reduced
to a line in a ledger.
No family.
No flowers.
No one to remember.

But I remember.
I remember her smile,
the way she adjusted her scarf
as if it might still keep her warm.
I remember how she moved
with a kind of dignity
despite everything.

It shouldn’t be this way.
In a world of abundance,
why do people
live and die like ghosts?
Why do we avert our eyes,
pretend not to see?

Mary deserved more.
They all do.
And I can’t forget.