MotherCop

Photo by Rae Angela on Unsplash

His coughs sounded rugged and frail as if he hadn’t eaten a solid meal—or had clean drinking water, for the weeks he’d been gone. She peeked outside her window to steal a glimpse, and could not contain herself from sharing his warmth. She felt protective of him. She watched attentively as he snuggled into the blanket she left him before his disappearance. He goes for months at a time. His uncombed hair looked as if it could ruin the strongest comb. His clothes were filthy. The badly torn washed-out Jean pant resting beside his makeshift bed was just about three tears short of disintegrating. She studied his motionless body and wondered—What was his life like back when he was younger. Back when his life was presumably like ours—under control, meaningful, and worth living for. She bravely tried engaging him in conversations from a distance a few times, when she went to offer him meals but—he never spoke. He never took the meals either—just cold, bare, blank stares. His persona is striking to that of one who has risen from the dead… He is here physically but it is evident, his soul is lost. He has never attempted to enter her home. What did she owe this man to persist after his daily, weekly, and monthly voyages, only to return outside of her window?

To be continued…