i'll let you know when i get there

People were here that aren't now.  Celeste.  Theresa. Who knows the names to come.  I remember a cacophony of gentle and unkind things I thought and said at times- thinking we would go on being people together forever I suppose.  The beauty I witnessed in them.  The things I judged.  The weight of that now.  How heavy the petty can be.  It's just not time yet. What is any of this, actually?

I need to tell you something in a hushed tone about the man in the wheelchair with only one shoe hunched over  openly weeping in the rain and how I walked by him.   What do we do?  What can we do?  How is it that a whole crowd of us can stand and wait for the light to change and pretend not to notice a human being openly weeping only ten feet away? What must it feel like to be the person in that chair- invisible.  Worse than invisible.  And at the same time-  What can be done?  What could I possibly do?  And if I started doing something, would it ever end?