I see her every Monday as I sit with a coffee in the McDonald's, killing time before my appointment. I watch her as she ambles partway down Portage, then turns, comes back, and continues her ramble down Sherbrook. Back and forth. Occasionally she will cross Portage and sit at the concrete tables in the McDonald's patio. I've even seen her come into the McDonald's, wandering around between the people having breakfast, who are intently ignoring her and her mutterings.
Today, she is wearing a long yellow skirt, a shocking pink fuzzy jacket, and a pink touque to top it off. I stand at the corner, waiting for the light to change, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She ambles up behind me, says a few words I can't comprehend, but I notice she has an accent: Ukrainian? Polish? Russian? I turn my attention back the crosswalk signal, too cowed to ask her to repeat herself. She wanders away; she must be used to the lack of attention the world pays her.
But she nags at me. Who is she? Why is she wandering up and down Portage and Sherbrook? Does she have a mental disorder and has she just fallen through the safety net? Is she homeless? She must have a place somewhere, I always see her a different outfit every Monday. How did she land up here? Is she someone's mother, someone's grandmother, someone's aunt? I think of my Grandma, living in the timeblur of late-stage Alzheimer's in Central Park Nursing Home; does the street woman have Alzheimer's too? She acts as if she does, but then, how would *I* act if all I did was wander the streets day after day, sun and rain and snow?
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