I dragged my four suitcases into the parking lot under the scorching California sun. I walked until blisters formed on my palms. I ended up in a public park, sitting on a metal bench as the sun went down.
That was my first night on the street.
Have you ever tried to sleep on a park bench while clutching everything you own? You don’t sleep. You drift in a terrified haze, jumping at every footstep, every siren. I was seventy-one. I was invisible. People walked past me, averting their gaze, afraid that my poverty might be contagious.
Two weeks passed. I learned to scavenge. I, Helen Salazar, who used to host Sunday dinners with fine china, learned which dumpsters behind the bakeries had the freshest bread. I learned to wash my face in the public restrooms of the library. I learned that hunger is a sharp, physical pain that eventually turns into a dull, constant ache.
I messaged Robert. Son, I have nowhere to go. Please.
Read. No reply.
Robert, I am sleeping in a park.
Read. No reply.
He knew. He simply didn’t care.
