t was lovely to talk to you when I saw you the other day. What a nice surprise to run into you in the street and have a chat and a hug. If we were any normal brother and sister that would be a fairly unremarkable event, but for us it is not so straightforward.
I know whereabouts you sleep because you told me, but I don't like to go there at night – when you are there – because it's not a safe place, so I never see you there. I have to content myself with hoping that I will run into you or perhaps waiting around where the soup runs go, in the hope that you will be there.
It's cold outside today. It must have been freezing last night. I hate to think of you out there in the cold. When you tell me how thoughtless and sadistic people can be to the homeless, I am filled with horror. You're not an easy person to be around sometimes, but you are somebody's brother, uncle, son – and loved.
I am so torn this Christmas. I don't want you to be alone. I don't want you to think that I don't love you, but I am also afraid of exposing my own children to the kind of insanity that was commonplace in our home. It is not an easy choice to make, and even if it were a good idea, I don't know if I would even be able to find you.
Our family had its problems, but had a lot to be thankful for. Christmas was an especially magical time. We would go to midnight mass with our parents and our sisters and listen to Dad bellowing tunelessly, and snigger into our sleeves. We would spend the whole of Christmas eating and drinking and playing with our toys.
Looking back through old family photographs, there seems to be a photo of Dad, dressed in tinsel, or a paper crown, passed out on the stairs or the sofa, every year. At the time, it seemed funny and benign – a part of our family tradition. But now we are spread very far apart. I find it hard to see anyone else in the family because I don't know how to talk to anyone.
I can't pretend that how we grew up isn't a factor in where you are now. It sometimes feels as if there is a herd of elephants in the room, leaving no space for us.
Last time I saw you, you looked very ill. You were cheerful and playing games with the traffic, walking fearlessly into the road as only someone who is used to wandering the streets all day does. Or perhaps it is because you were bolstered by several cans of super-strength lager. Or perhaps you just don't care if you die. I told you that I was afraid you were going to die and that I didn't want that to happen because I love you, and you said, "Everyone dies!" and gave me a hug.
But when I had to go I saw the look in your eyes. That I was abandoning you.
I am not abandoning you. I wish that I could do something to help, but all my efforts did nothing. I don't believe in God, but I pray for you. It seems that is all I can do. In the meantime, I will go down to the soup run and see if I can find you. For all I know, you have organised yourself a lovely Christmas day. I am always amazed by the resourcefulness and the ability to remain philosophical that homeless people have.
I am grateful to you for teaching me about life and love and how to be open-minded. I hope I don't have too much more to learn.
Bella
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