I rolled toward the red light. A woman stood at the curb under an overpass. My car came to a halt. Stained with tar-like colors and earth, her dress rippled in the breeze. Her knees looked like a little kid who had played in the sand all day. The cardboard sign in her hand was cut at an angle from a box that once held bananas. Dole was replaced with Hungry. Help Me.
My fingers inched left and pressed the window’s up button. I took a shallow breath and felt a tiny foot swimming against my abdomen. Very soon, I would become a mother.
Still, guilt overcame me for placing glass between us, like this woman’s situation was contagious or something. She was someone’s child. Looking past her, I inventoried the scene: a curiously tall white chair, ragged green tent, Home Depot bucket, littered Doritos bag, and a shopping cart with a soiled blanket.
The tall white chair felt out of place. I imagined it once lived in someone’s dining room. Fancy and lean with an ornate back. From where I sat, it had no apparent flaws.
And the woman. Was her life like the chair? Once a kid playing hide and seek under a fancy dining room table, only to be disposed of and forgotten? Hungry. Help Me. I read the sign again.
My heart ached for her story. Could we share a coffee. Offer a place to take a shower. Instead, I glanced at my passenger seat, grabbed my snack, and rolled down the window.
“Hey!” I shouted. “I have a pear.” I paused like I needed to sell it to her. “It’s the Bartlett kind. Do you want it?” I held it out the window.
Her piercing blue eyes stretched to her forehead; she didn’t speak, but her soot-washed fingernails snatched the fruit from my hand, instantly biting it. The sticker on the side of the pear nearly entered her mouth. I swallowed hard.
Scrambling for words, I yelled, “watch out…the sticker.”
But she ate it.
Our eyes stayed connected as if she were searching for more. Staring at me through her own window. I wished I had a full barrel of pears to give…a basket of groceries…a voucher for a place to stay.
The light turned green. I nodded at the woman while rolling through the light. In my side mirror, I watched her eyes stay on my bumper. A knot sat in my throat. She tossed the core to the ground and wiped her mouth with her emaciated wrist.
People hold signs every day. Homeless. Anything helps. Or Hungry. Please give, Or lost job. Children to feed. A piece of me questions each one. I admit it – I generally keep driving. I roll up my window, place glass between me and the shattered world, and sit with my own shards. And I wonder if I’ve ever been a few steps away from standing in those shoes. It takes courage to ask for help.
I’ve been hungry. But not for food. I’ve needed a friend, but I haven’t reached out.
As I continued my drive, I placed my left hand on my belly. My baby continued to dance in his safe womb. In under a month, would I be brave enough to hold out a sign in the form of a phone call or a text—to be vulnerable around those I love and ask for support as a first-time mom? I rarely ask for help.
One week postpartum, I stood in my kitchen. Feet bare, I held our infant son like a football as he struggled to latch and feed. His sobs puddled against my swollen belly. His shrieks rattled from every pore. Arms flailed. He was inconsolable. Hungry. Help me.
Decorated in disposable underwear, I gazed out our wide window. Breaths heavy. A reflection of two unrecognizable sleepless bodies stared back. A cocktail of spit up stained my shoulder. Hair unruly. Mascara smudged around puffy eyes. Arms bruised from IV ports. Cries ricocheted down the hall. No one warned me that his tears would maim my soul. That my chest would ache, wrestling sleep to watch his heartbeat, while my husband slept peacefully.
I thought about the time I stopped my car next to the woman under the overpass. How she and I were different and the same. Behind the glass of our picturesque window, I watch the trees sway. People walk by. Dogs held on leashes. Traffic pass. I stand in my earth-stained colors desperate for someone to offer me time for a hot shower. A cup of coffee. Feed me a Bartlett Pear.
Someone out there, please aid. Teach me the secrets of breastfeeding. Of soothing these sharp cries. How do I deal with these hormones? Other moms make it look easy.
I bit my lower lip. Tears spilled from the crooks of my eyes. Exhausted and isolated, we were paired.
New Mother, Help me.
*****
Lindsey Ogden is a freelance writer based in Phoenix. She is a member of The Writerly Group, Central Phoenix Writing Workshop, and a weekly participant in Writing in The Dark on Substack. After a fifteen-year traveling sales career, she is embracing motherhood and time hiking and exploring nature. Her personal essays have been published in Her View from Home.
