“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” -Charles Dickens

 

Photograph © Fatuma Hydara 2009, NY.

Short Story © Fatuma Hydara, 2011.

Huddled on a flattened cardboard box and wrapped in old blankets, I try to sleep to no avail. Asleep, the hunger pangs will be less crippling. Asleep, I can dream and pretend that nothing has changed. Asleep, I am in my 3-bedroom apartment on Madison. It’s nearly Christmas and the tree’s decorated with countless ornaments in red, green, silver and gold. There’s popcorn strings and strings of light, all topped with a beautiful shining angel. I’m on the couch and “The Nightmare Before Christmas” is playing on a 60 inch flat screen. It’s my daughter’s favorite movie and she’s tucked underneath my left arm, partly in my lap and half asleep. My lovely, beautiful wife is on my right. As close as can be allowed, her thigh is touching mine and her head is lying on my shoulder. I feel the warmth of her thigh against mine, her left hand in my right and her small puffs of breath softly grazing my neck. The warmth spreads through every cell in my body and makes me feel alive.

I gently smile in my sleep, just before the dream changes. Now, there’s screaming, arguing, accusations, words I don’t want to hear. I work too hard. I never spend time with them. There’s another woman. I want a divorce. She takes everything from me—my little girl, the house, the car, but most of all the warmth. I begin dying slowly inside without the warm contentment. And the final, piercing blow to my already cold heart—joining the ranks of the unemployed.

From there, it’s a nauseating roller coaster ride through emptying my saving, moving to a much smaller apartment and beginning the job hunt. The confidence that I’d be employed soon made way for an anxiety as the bills came more frequently than the phone rang. Then depression as I realized I truly had nothing—no family, no job, no money, no life. Three months soon turned into six, which turned into a year. By then, it was too late. My savings were gone and the unemployment checks were not enough to continue paying rent. I was on the streets.

I wake suddenly and for a few seconds, I believe that the lights reflecting off the glass doors are red, green, silver and gold and I feel warm. Soon, the cold seeps into the cushion of warmth left by my dreams, dispelling them and I’m jolted back into my harsh reality. I am invisible, insubstantial. I am one of the city’s homeless.