Dad's Final Gift

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.”