Homeless-Personal Narrative

In the morning, I didn’t feel well and decided to phone my manager to take a day off. Mike finished his breakfast, kissed me goodbye on my forehead and closed the door behind. It was time to prepare breakfast for Luke. I heard very often from other mums, that they need to kick their teenage kids out of their bed every morning. But with our son Luke, it was different. With a great excitement in eyes and a big smile, he was ready to start another day. I was making pancakes with a strawberry jam. His favorite.

“Morning mum” Big bright lagoon eyes, messy dark hair, loose white shirt and black jeans. It was Luke full of energy approaching the dining table.

“Will meet with Jim later” He mumbled to the pancake. I was happy for him to come before

I loved seeing the hope and enthusiasm she had in her eyes. The lady with a black hood kept arranging her work to the perfection. It was the flower lady. She was selling all kind of plants on our high street every day. Not many people were passing by in that weather, but she gave the biggest smile to those who did. The most powerful bosses, running successful projects, could learn from her. She was honest, and even with the horrible weather, she was making a lot of money. As if she went under your skin and turned the windiest and rainiest day into something totally different. She just simply knew, how to run her business. She just simply knew, the honest recipe for the right attitude. On the bus stop, was standing a young mum with a little boy in a pram. The rain cover blocked his view and he was screaming, but his mum was peacefully inhaling the grey smell into her lungs and didn’t make a move. She was looking into a paddle. Not even the reflection, made her put the cigarette down. The boy wasn’t screaming because his view was blocked. He was screaming because the grey smell sneaked under the rain cover and he was trying to get some fresh air. She joined us on board through the back door. I was sitting just two steps away. The boy was looking at me as if he was asking for help. He could be around two years old. Another lady, maybe Italian speaking, was sitting on the bus with us. She was on the phone and I didn’t need to speak the language to understand that she was upset. She was crying and repeating the same words all over again. I was thinking about my marriage. Every time before the driver shut the door, I wanted to get off the bus and run away. Naive as always. I thought that running would sort out everything. But I was on my way to meet Mike and I was already late. The traffic lights kept us on hold every couple of meters. The high street was too busy and it was still a long way to