Dad died around midnight on March 16. Twelve hours later I was carrying boxes containing the last of his effects from his stay in assisted living. Those effects included towels, washcloths, a brand new, unused comforter, and assorted hospice care items that assisted living didn't want but I couldn't bear to throw away.
It was a dry and bright afternoon as I approached my car parked alongside a Thai restaurant. I looked toward the restaurant's back parking lot and noticed in a far corner a homeless person hunched over some type of jury-rigged piece of portable luggage. I could not see the person's face.
A great notion occurred. They seem to manifest a lot when it comes to helping homeless people.
I placed the boxes in the car, dug through one, and fished out a package of sterile wipes. I walked toward the homeless person and called out, “Hey, I think I have something you might be able to use.”
The person raised their head. It was a woman in her 30s, red hair, black eye shadow, black lipstick, big smile. I walked closer and recognized her from the neighborhood. I had never seen her addled. She was always alone.
“My Dad just passed away in assisted living” I said, “and I have something you might be able to use, sterile wipes.”
“Oh that would be great,” she said. “They come in handy.”
I handed over the package and saw among her possessions a book about beginning a blog, doubtless published from blogging's 2005-08 heyday.
“Are you going to start blogging?” I said.
“I found it, started reading, and thought I might start.”
“People seem to prefer podcasts these days.”
“They seem too complicated.”
“Yes.”
“I'm really sorry about your dad.”
“It's a relief. He was in hospice and struggling. He's at rest now.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
I said goodbye and returned to assisted living to fetch the last load, a laundry hamper full of clean stuff ready for Goodwill. When I approached the car, the homeless woman had moved closer to the restaurant and was sorting her gear, prepping for transportation.
“Hey,” I said, “could you use a comforter, brand new? My Dad never used it.”
“Sure,” she said, “all my bedding got stolen last night.”
I set down the hamper and produced the comforter.
“Thank you,” she said.
“How about a towel and washcloth?”
I was rolling. I started feeling giddy.
“That would be great,” she said. “Thank you.”
“And how about another packages of sterile wipes?”
“Okay.”
It was then I noticed she had incredibly large eyes.
“What's your name?” I said.
“Amber.”
“I'm Matt.”
As Amber started packing up Dad's final gifts, I went to my car and retrieved a copy of the Old Crow Book Club.
“I wrote this book about the homeless in the neighborhood,” I said. “You might find it interesting.”
She took it from me and said, “Oh, I had this and started reading it but it was stolen. Thank you, I wanted to finish it.”
“You take care,” I said.
“I will, and again, I'm sorry about your dad.”
“He would have loved knowing you got some of his things.”
Matt, I'm sorry for the passing of your Dad. Sharing his belongings with Amber was a most appropriate recognition of his life and your learnings.
When I open my email in the morning I always read you first. I'm glad your Dad is at piece, but sorry for the hole that leaves in your life. Thank you for your kindness to Amber, and so many others.