Forgive Me

The sign read, “Please help me feed my three children.”  It was made of a discarded side of a cardboard box, well-used and bent in the middle. The black ink was bold and dark, the Please underlined. The whole sentence should have been underscored and punctuated. By her unspoken English and pleading gestures, I knew that someone else had written the sign for her. She wore her misfortune like a grieving widow, veiled in sadness and complexity. She, too, was deserving of something, if not food, support.

Photo from Wix.

Folds of cloth were swathed over her form, a black burka marking her face and her shame. Her sorrow was perceptible, and her suffering palpable. The lines circling her drawn eyes were hollow, tired, and weak. Observing, she seemed wanting, not needy. The sun behind her juxtaposed her growing shadow looming before me. She was captivating, like the iconic picture of the Afghan girl with the bewitching turquoise eyes on the National Geographic cover in June of 1985. I questioned her happiness as well.

I was stopped at the red light with my window down, her presence and placard as notable as the affluence surrounding her. I knew what she needed, but I looked her in the eye and said that I didn’t have any cash. She, too, looked me in the eye and said, “Bless you.”  My heart sank into a Persephone of depths, and days later, her spirit haunted me like a persistent thought that burns into sleepless nights. Some humane and compassionate part of me wanted to believe that this couldn’t happen to someone, but it does, doesn’t it, every day, everywhere.

I thought about giving her the ten-dollar bill, nudging toward the surface of my Michael Kors purse. Instinctively and intuitively, something told me not to, sparking an image of the same woman at the corner of Trafalgar and Steeles with the same sign and mission. These were two desperate intersections, miles and miles away from one another. I questioned her honesty and integrity while weighing my own. How and why was she here when a month ago she was there?  Did she take the bus, have a car, a husband, a family?  Who was looking after her starving children?

Was this a ruse or real? It seemed unbelievable. Why does something need to be seen and validated to avoid skepticism?

When the light turned green, I smiled and sped through the light, feeling indulgent that I was going to Starbucks for a six-dollar lactose-free latte. Habitually more gracious and empathetic, I sipped my coffee guiltily, ruminating over my decision not to give the woman anything. How dare I question her existence, her motives, her purpose for standing there on the corner of Appleby and Dundas, or, for that matter, anywhere. How pathetic of me to judge this woman, wearing her pride and dignity on the weathered and withered folds of her tattered shoulders. Good on her. Shame on me.

I can’t be there for everyone, but I could have been there for her. I could have given her the groceries that I had just bought at Fortino’s or the ten-dollar bill discarded haphazardly in my purse. Better yet, I could have sat with her. In the sacred space of silence, I could have witnessed her pain. I chose to acknowledge her. Some part of me needed to turn my head left and stare into the penetrating gaze of this woman and notice her. I decided to see not only her poverty but my own, albeit not as desperate, but impoverished all the same. I needed to recognize the emptiness that I feed with food and falsehoods and the feelings that I blunder into obscurity. She taught me more about myself in two minutes than I have owned in months, possibly years. I saw myself in her;  she was a woman hungry, dissatisfied, desirous, and honestly, in need of help.

Embarrassingly, maybe I also confirmed what she already knew about humanity: that we can be selfish, even cruel, to both ourselves and others.

I held on to the ten-dollar bill like a tight-lipped secret, silently filled with remorse. I wanted to circle around and stop regardless of the colour of the stop light and tell her that I understood and hand over the ten-dollar bill. I wanted to say I was sorry.

I did neither.

I turned east on Dundas, drove straight on Tremaine, and turned right on Pringle because you never know, in a year, in a month, in a day, or a minute, it could be me standing on that busy corner holding up a ratty old sign begging for help. One day, I may need that ten-dollar bill. If it is, bless me. For now, forgive me.

We live in a society that is uncomfortable talking about death and supporting those in grief. Many of us simply do not know how to respond to someone in pain. Would you have done anything differently had you known that her husband died?

I am a death and grief literacy advocate and educator who is dedicated to raising awareness and inspiring communities to learn how to navigate loss with greater skill and confidence. My work empowers people to learn what to say and do in the face of death and grief, helping them feel more informed, supported, connected, and capable of showing up for themselves and others. Together, we can create a community that is more informed and compassionate.

We do not heal in silence.