At Five Thirty On Every Rainy Late Autumn Afternoon

She was tucked up behind these white chairs, huddled next to the cedar fence. 

And it was not July, as this photo shows. 

Five thirty on a rainy late autumn afternoon. 

Fresh home from a grocery store run, my husband burst into the kitchen and briskly asked my daughter, "Where's Mom?" before spying me at (surprise) the kitchen sink. 

So I was already on red alert. But what he said next shook me.

"There's a homeless woman setting up camp in our yard. Do you think we should call the cops?"

My heart and mind began to swirl.

First, how sad. How truly, inconceivably, breathtakingly sad that the world has come to this. A human being squatting under my rhododendron bushes on a miserably wet and cold night, bunching up piles of moldering leaves in an attempt to make space for herself. 

At the same time, I feel a chill run through me. Homeless strangers living in my bushes? No, that's not the life I live. I accept that our culture's perfect storm of addiction, unaffordable housing, mental illness, inadequate social support, and perhaps some domestic violence sprinkled over the top, has led to tent cities, cardboard shelters, and people literally dozing in sleeping bags along the storefronts as an everyday reality in our city streets. But in my quiet, mannerly, suburban neighborhood? Yeah, I never bargained on that. 

I wonder to myself how desperate a person would need to be to wander into my neighborhood, see my hedge of shrubs, and think, yeah, this'll work. 

So yes, let's call the police.Let's get this poor woman out of my bushes. Let's help her find a safe place to sleep tonight, tomorrow night. Let's show her a path to get back on her feet and build up her life.

My husband called 911.

An officer came to the house.

By then, the woman was gone.

The officer cruised around the neighborhood for a while, watching out for her, then looped back to check in with us again to see if she had returned.

But she had disappeared into the dark, rainy evening without a trace.

* * * * *

In the weeks since, I'm often outside around five thirty in the afternoons, coming home from walking with my dog. We've been walloped with rain lately, and even though my pants and shoes are drenched, I'm cozy warm inside my GoreTex. On the porch, I serve Gracie up a big bowl of kibble and human-grade canned salmon, and as she eats, I think over my dinner plan and imagine the warm plate of food that's soon to be set in front of me. Warm light washes over me as I open the door and step inside; despite my soggy clothes, I know I'm soon to be warm and dry, wrapped in a blanket of safety, security, and comfort inside my sweet home. 

I think of that woman who tried to camp in my bushes, and I wish her well.

At five thirty on every rainy late autumn afternoon.