High Water

The morning was clear and a little on the muggy side, especially for November. The riverfront was mostly deserted, a handful of flannel shirted men in line for the gun show, a young woman walking a half grown yellow lab, an old man watching the fountains, his clasped hands resting on his cane. And the homeless man - tall, thin, shockingly young and slowly shaking out his sleeping bag in the shadows of the trees. He folded his meager belongings and stuffed them into a backpack then walked to the water's edge and knelt, splashed water onto his face. His face and hands were streaked with grime and dirt, his hair hung to his shoulders, lank and lifeless. He walked with a slight limp and a pronounced world weariness.

The river had changed. The current was rough and moving fast, washing away pretty much anything in its path. Most of the grass was underwater and cordoned off, a new lake had formed where there had been solid ground and there were new boundaries of yellow tape and plastic fencing made of bright orange mesh. I walked the perimeter, listening to the rushing river and feeling the early morning sunshine, thinking about a young man forced to sleep on the wet grass in a city park, wondering how a person gets to such a place and how he stays there. Not all November mornings would be as warm or as kind to him as this one. Winter, when it comes, will make him more visible to the rest of us still secure enough to have a bed to sleep in and choices for breakfast.

Perhaps he's just passing through, I think, on his way to a Florida beach like a migrating bird. Perhaps he will find work and shelter along the way, like a migrant fruit picker from the 20's. Or perhaps he's a drifter by choice, shunning attachments and in love with the open road. None of these romantic notions seem likely - I like them because they camouflage the reality and make me feel less guilty. Trash! my mother would have said, Too lazy to do anything except collect his welfare checks! My grandmother would have given the young man a wide berth, dismissing him in much the same way. Even my daddy would have frowned and steered clear, It's no sin to be dirty, I could hear him tell me, But it's a crime to stay that way. Crossing Boston Common one early winter afternoon after a day of shopping, I remember asking my grandmother, Do they like living that way? She snatched my hand and gave me a jerk, Bums! she snapped, Of course they do!

Meanwhile, the river rushed on, carrying helpless branches and clumps of grass along with it, things that never had a choice about being washed away.