Goodbye Jane

The local paper devoted an entire two pages to her, yet it still didn't feel like enough. As long as she's been wandering the streets of this town, you'd think they'd hold a parade, or maybe close up shop for the day in her honor. Nope, just a two page spread appropriately and ironically buried somewhere in the middle of the local section, and a tiny blurb on the front cover. They titled her "Melbourne's Homeless Icon" but we simply knew her as Jane, or more accurately Crazy Jane.

She was found Thursday morning, slumped peacefully outside the 7-11, head resting on the tattered duffel bag that held her few possessions. I'm not sure exactly how sad a person is supposed to be when they learn the news that the local bag lady has croaked, but in a way, I feel as if her death takes some significant part of me... and of this town... with her. And yet, there's this contradiction of feeling within me. There's part of me that wants to mourn her, if for no other reason than the fact that there's no one else to do so, and then there's the part of me that says "Oh, get real, you hardly knew her!" I don't know which one to listen to. All I know is that I'll miss our not so lucid occasional conversations, and I'll miss seeing her stroll aimlessly through the city, draped in layers and layers of clothing, even in the midst of brutal summer heat.

I'd like to think that I'm not the only one that has this little gnawing regret inside of them for every time they laughed, pointed, and rolled their eyes at her. I'd like to think I'm not the only one that hates themself just a little for pretending not to see her standing there huddled uselessly under a palm tree in the middle of a storm instead of offering her a ride, or some sort of shelter. Surely she was human, just as deserving of friendship and kindness as the rest of us, if not moreso.

The report says there will be an autopsy to confirm the cause of death. I'm sure the doctors will narrow it down to something along the lines of heart failure, or maybe even drug overdose. What their reports and their proddings won't find is the consuming emptiness of a life spent on the fringe of society.

God bless you Crazy Jane, may you rest more peacefully now.

*The following was written some time ago. Just thought I'd dig it out and share it one last time.*

Jane

The brisk winter wind
delivered her in a swirl
of dirty blond locks
and moth-worn scarves.

From an adjacent booth
I inhale the compost stench,
Acrid acidity cradled
by candle flame freshness.
She warmed her cellophane skin.

Some jukebox gem lured her erect
and she danced, head thrown back,
humming in tuneless disharmony.

I stifled my laughter... barely.

Whirling, twirling,
careening and gliding
an erratic spiral of ecstasy,
arms flailing, crashes into me.

Eyes find mine,
dark, hollow and haggard.
I hide my trembling hands
between thick denimed thighs.

"Stay away from them black men,
you pretty, pretty child!"

One finger caresses my carnation cheek.
Clumsy, uncalculated strokes.
Close my eyes, I am corrupted,
filthy like her.

She is gone, as quickly as she came.
Out the door and vanishing,
hitching a ride on the gale.

Bartender sighs gently
"...see you've met Jane."
I shrug false indifference,
sip my coffee,
black as the men of her warning.