60 / 168
60
The Home Of
The Homeless
Sophie He
When I became the CEO of a major marketing company, I expected
to look out of my floor-to-ceiling tinted windows and see an endless
expanse of glass skyscrapers, none taller than my own. I’d see the
sunlight winking at the mosaic of office windows and then I’d see my
own smiling reflection in the newly-cleaned windows. But when I
looked out of the dusty windows of the dinghy ground-floor concrete
office, all I saw was the brick wall of an out-of-business milkbar. The
pavement was blanketed by a layer of litter that almost drew away
from the homeless man clinging onto his thread-bare blanket of
hope, soothing his sanity which threatened to slip away with every
passing day. He squatted with his stick-insect legs tucked into his
fragile little bird body, with a square of cardboard next to him,
reading: Hav a Nise Dai. I tossed him a glare every morning, but my
anger seemed to always smack straight into his wall of kindness.
Every morning, I woke up to the scent of freshly-brewed coffees entering the
office building across the road, reminding me of the hot chocolates my mother
used to bring us after a full day of begging on the streets. Those were the days
when the word ‘home’ meant family. Now, home was what I call my trusty old
sleeping bag, pressed against the jagged edges of a sturdy brick wall. As I wiped
the jewels of sleep from my eyes, the office across the road came to life; one by one,
weary-eyed employees were swallowed by the concrete monster, its eyes flickered
open as the blinds recoiled and finally, its stomach began to grumble as the
sound of printers resonated through the crisp morning air. And situated right
next to the mouth of the monster was the office of possibly the richest man in New
York City.
The enormity of the patchwork quilt of bricks almost engulfed
his frail body as the ground beneath his bare feet threatened to do
the same. Fresh graffiti dripped down the wall to meet the weeds
sprouting from cracks in the sidewalk. Above, the sky coughed and
wheezed for air as the weight of winter slowly descended onto the
city. The homeless man’s health was disintegrating, the hunger and
cold was finally catching up to him. But every single day, he still
waved at me though his hands were shaking with cold, he still smiled
at me though his teeth chattered in the stabbing chill of the wind
and he still greeted me though his voice was hoarse from years of
silence. His clothes entertained the possibility of frostbite, his life
was the definition of poverty but his heart knew the true meaning
of happiness.
9