That Which is Left

In all my years of writing and blogging, I have only deleted one post - this morning. This is what's left.

She hobbled across the road, not with purpose, and not even with direction. Half way across she began to deviate from the white-striped cross walk toward the front of my cab. That's how I got such a good look at her. At first I thought she was drunk. Couldn't blame her, really. Her skin was as dark as they come. She had very wide lips that were parted to allow puffs of cold breath to swirl amongst the exhaust fumes. Her coat was in tatters. Her cane drifted lazily in her left hand, only occasionally striking the pavement, but certainly not in any sort of helpful way. Her eyes darted to my cab, ostensibly to see if she was going to be run over. The red hand had stopped flashing and the horns followed right behind. It was her eyes that did this to me.

She was born around 1955, and had a lot of mileage on those wheels. How did she come to be crossing the street on a cold Chicago evening? Where was she headed? What was her purpose?

A better question. Did she need a purpose? Had she ever really thought about it? People are born, they live their lives and they pass on. What makes her different from me? Nothing, really. She is a mass of carbon and water. She is a conscious, self-aware, living entity with dreams and stories. In the end, she'll cease to exist. The universe will cease to exist, at least for her. Come to think of it, when your world ceases to exist, does it really matter if it continues for anyone else?

But there she went, weaving towards some destination in her world with some importance to her. And I went my way, cruising in my cab towards a warm scotch at the top of the Hancock building. Yet another stop along the path.