Day 20: Loretta

Loretta is an old woman. She walks the streets of our town bent over so low her face is parallel to the earth. Her shoulders are hunched, as though she is carrying a bundle on her tiny back. Some people say she has nothing except the down jacket she is huddled in. Some people say she is rich and hoarding her wealth. People who've lived here longer than us talk about a fire that destroyed her home and killed her family. They say she's never been the same, that the enormous weight of losing everything has literally crushed her.

Tonight Loretta was in front of us in line at Wal-Mart. Actually, Loretta came running back into the store looking for a Dr. Pepper that she lost. It had fallen out of her cart and I located it resting on the bottom shelf, propped up by Doritos. So she cut in line ahead of us to pay for her soda. I could smell the sweat and urine. Her frizzy head was bent so low as she searched her pockets for the dollar fifty. Rich wanted to pay and he's not always subtle about these things, so I asked him to put the cart back, as a sort of distraction. Three minutes later Loretta is still digging for that dollar fifty that she knows she's got in there. I caught the cashier's eye and signalled that we would pay for the drink, but the cashier shook her head. What was there to do, but wait, in quiet humiliation for this tiny old woman who's chapped red legs poked out of sweatpants two sizes too small. We waited. Finally, Loretta gave up the search for the dollar fifty and instead reaches into another pocket and pulls out an enormous wad of cash, so thick the rubber band wouldn't stretch off. Rich and I stare at each other incredulously. She pays and hobbles away. The cashier explains that she always has money and she's always incredibly slow and she always throws a fit if someone tries to pay for her groceries.

I don't know the truth about Loretta, I don't know if what they say is true. But it made me think about what people really need. So she has money, does this mean that she is okay? Does she have anyone who will sit beside her just to talk? People may care enough to try and pay for her soda, but who will walk next to her when there's no one around to notice? I want to be the kind of person who can see past the outfit, even past the stories that are told. I want to be the kind of person who's not afraid to look a stranger in the eyes, even if I have to stoop down low to do so.