UNDER THE BRIDGE

The Socks
by Anneli Altson

I entered the Laundromat with my clothes and as I set them on the blue-flecked counter, I noticed the smell. It was an odd combination: tangy, tart and medicinal. I thought I smelled tea tree oil, too.

I went back out to the car to get the other basket, and as I came in, I saw him. He was sitting over against the window in an old patio furniture chair. He had his feet sitting on a dark maroon towel and he was dumping hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol and tea tree oil on his legs. His legs were covered with sores. His feet were swollen. The peroxide bubbled endlessly on the open wounds and the liquid running down his legs was bloody and yellow at the same time.

I watched as two perky blonde women entered through the door. They were carrying a fancy comforter and they were quite tan.

"Isn't that a dryer?" one of them said.

"No, it's a washer," the other replied, "I think."

They fluffed their hair, checked their platinum cell phones, and twirled a little on their strappy sandals.

"Oh gross," one of them said, as she spotted the guy with the sores.

"I'm homeless," he said without looking up. "I do a lot of walking. I'm trying to take care of my feet, but it's just really hard because they never have a chance to get better."

Perky blonde didn't respond. She looked at her friend, rolled her eyes, stuck her finger down her throat (in a fantastic gag-me valley girl impression) and walked out. I eyed the homeless man. He reminded me of my uncle; uncontrollable reddish beard, hardened attitude, independent. I thought of my mother and her own homelessness. I thought of the mercy that had been shown towards me. I started my laundry, ran out to my car, and went to a nearby shoe store. I found 2 packs of the softest, thickest socks I could find, bought them, and ran them back to the homeless guy. He didn't say anything, and neither did I. All I could think about, however, was that I missed my mother, that I have always missed my mother, and that I hoped somebody would show love and mercy on her.

My own troubles with mother-hood lately have forced me to think about this woman who gave birth to me, this woman who has never really been a part of my life, but who, when I close my eyes and am still, I can sometimes feel. Partial images, sensory experiences of sitting in her lap, of rocks and water and tide pools; of being loved and safe and protected - sometimes they are there, sometimes I remember.

I think of how she too sat in a courtroom. I think of how she didn't have a supportive husband or friends or a therapist - I think of how alone she was; how she must have felt when I was taken away. I think of how it must have torn her apart to leave me with him; I think of what it must have taken for her to walk away, like Lot's wife, no pillar of salt, no tears, no looking back.

I wish I could find her, for just a moment. I wish I could tell her how much I love her, how much I've always loved her. I wish I could tell her that I hated her because I never understood, but now it makes sense -- imperfection and humanity and being abused and being afraid and letting go and holding on and how in the end it is all about being real, being human, and how lucky you are (or aren't) to have the love and care of others who will hold your hand and walk you out of the shadows and towards the light. And so, when I gave those socks to that homeless man in the laundromat, I wasn't giving them to him, really. I was giving them to my mother, to my uncle, to the people in my family who have struggled with their addictions and their imperfections, and who have been alone in that struggle. I was hoping that somehow, through these thousands of miles, my mother would know that the daughter she never knew had seen a glimpse of her own frailty and brokenness and through that glimpse, had forgiven her mother for everything that had ever hurt her. And had forgiven her for not being there when she needed her.
Ms. Altson lives in California. She was searching the Internet for information on her mother. She was searching the internet for info on her mom and found our page. At the time she didn't know her mother passed away. Ms. Altson wrote this piece August 14, 2001 while still believing her mother was out there somewhere.

Anneli Dyer died homeless in Manchester March 18, 2000 20 feet from her tent. She had lived with her boyfriend for several years in and out of housing. The State coroner said the cause of death was a result of "natural disease process" of hypothermia. To read more about Anneli and others read our book Under The Bridge: Stories and Poems by Manchester's Homeless, available at through the Manchester and NH State library system. Also check at high schools or colleges as some purchased the book for their own library