As she passed closer by she looked a bit sooty; dusty, and it made me wonder if she were a fraudulent civilian; one of those who hide their predicament, like a secret disease, leper, the shameful un-cleanliness of the residentially challenged.
I’ve seen it here: a woman who slept out of doors, dirt alley behind a garage, cleaned herself up, and rode off, looking every bit the part of yoga-mat toting, house-frau. Maybe up close the extra sun-lines show through. I didn’t want to stare too hard. That would be rude.
Have you ever read of Roman domestics? The servant class shows it in their bones. An impoverished life is not just skin deep.
I guided her as she past. Here, miss, I’ve put soil along the gravel here, so no sinking in. “Oh…” she said, or ‘did’ with her body-english/expression. A kindness, though hardly sustainable… So I had poured buckets in a line down the fresh gravel, and I think she was surprised. Does anyone care for her, I mean… does anyone share with her?
It is a hard world…