I can’t tell if people are homeless or eccentric.
Today I watched a woman on the train dig through a canvass bag of assorted trash, lime rinds, old newspapers and scraps of paper covered in chicken scratch.
The critic in me wrote her off as crazy. The writer in me imagined her life story. The empath in me felt guilty for judging. The child in me kept watching to see what happened next.
When she stood up to exit, I quickly pretended like I wasn’t staring.
She walked towards me and asked if I always wore my nametag on the subway.
I smiled and said yes.
She laughed, winked in the way sweet old ladies do, and stepped off the train.