"And now with the light."

For my friend J.G.

Norfolk, Conn. 2021

A herd of bison
clouds thunders by lightning
striking off their hooves.
—J.G.

7 MARCH—After his mother died and her house was sold, my friend J.G. became homeless, joining thousands of others without shelter in Seattle. For the past month he has been living in cheap hotels and out of his car. Which actually makes him… lucky.

I can do nothing to help, and so I send text messages:

Cara: Good morning! Just thinking of you as I often do. Am around all day and available if you feel like a chat. Stay warm and keep the faith. I think you must feel very alone but I know you have tremendous inner spiritual resources. May they be your shelter and solace. Sending a warm hug.

J.G.: Thank you for your constancy in caring for me… Bless you for being such a blessing.

Words are cheap comfort it seems to me. There is nothing I can say that doesn’t sound trite to my own ears as I type from the sheltering safety of my small home.

Cara: You’ve always made it easier for me to have faith in my fellow human beings and in the possibility of love and kindness… Perhaps that seems strange when you must feel forsaken by your fellows. As all who are homeless must feel.

As a favor can you please send me your haiku about the bison in the sky?

* * *

J.G. and I met at the University of Washington, where we were co-workers. From 2008 to 2010 he donated some 500 hours of sick leave to me so I could continue to keep my health insurance during extended periods of illness. Other co-workers contributed as well, in truly stunning displays of generosity. Even so, J.G.’s donation was extraordinary. All the more so given the humble position he occupied at the research institute where we worked.

I will always remember my friend’s gentle kindness during those difficult years when I was sick with ME/CFS and terrified of losing my job. I recall the times he reached for and held my hand when I broke down crying at work.

There is no one now to hold my friend’s hand.

* * *

Like many Americans living on the streets, J.G. worked all of his adult life in jobs that were necessary to society but undervalued and low-paying. A stroke left my friend unable to work when he was still in his fifties. When the rising cost of housing and everything else outstripped what was left of savings and a modest retirement, he ended up on the street.

J.G. is an American refugee. One of millions. These also are the victims of war—of a military empire that spends trillions of dollars on regime change wars and weapons of mass destruction.

Perhaps if the homeless of America had a flag it would be an emoji attached to people’s twitter handles and Facebook photos, like the ones we commonly see—America’s or France’s or Brazil’s. Perhaps then they would be more visible—their humanity and suffering recognized, their right to dignity and self-determination championed—and our government would pour billions into assistance for our fellow Americans rather than funding wars abroad.

* * *

I last spoke with J.G. ten days ago. He was sitting outside in the dark listening to the surf roll in at the public beach near the Edmonds ferry terminal, just north of Seattle. He’d been up for hours. It had been a cold and rough night.

The sound of snow turning to rain woke me up as it hit the car roof. You can stay at a rest stop only four hours before you have to move. I set an alarm. Then I get back on the freeway, turn around in the other direction when I can, and pull off at the next rest stop. That way I get most of a night’s sleep.

Of course there are other people doing the same thing.

As we talked—J.G. out in the cold beneath the open sky; me in a warm room 3,000 miles away—he described the lights of an approaching ferry, the roar of the surf as it crashed to shore. And then dawn broke. Snow skittered across the foaming waves. And the poet in him spoke,

Ahhh! And now with the light come the gulls flying like kites.