Turtle's passing
Turtle lived at the bus stop by the Honolulu Academy of the Arts.
He was this big slow-moving guy who always wore this heavy brown sweatshirt, so I nicknamed him "Turtle" in my mind. Clean-shaven, he blended in with the brown edging around the lawn. Occasionally I would see him eating and wondered if someone left him things or if he ventured from his spot on the left side of the bench. Once in awhile, Turtle would be on the lawn of the Arts Academy, but mostly he sat and stared as the world came whizzing past him in cars and buses.
If I wondered about Turtle, I never asked. Never talked to him and never saw him talk to anyone. He looked at us with sad sorrowful eyes. People looked at him with disdain and disgust as they walked past. I never went near Turtle when waiting for a bus, aiming for another bench altogether. I never handed him money or food.
Who was Turtle? He didn’t seem very old, maybe in his thirties or forties. What fate had befallen him that he would sit there day in and day out? Unlike some homeless folks, he didn’t have a good deal of belongings with him. If I remember right, he didn’t have much more than a stuffed out brown backpack.
In recent trips to Straub Medical Center, I hopped off TheBus and noticed Turtle was keeping his hood up. He quit shaving and sported a full grayish black beard on his moon-shaped face. The Turtle retreated into his shell.
Yet, here was this person I would often see several times a week in passing. There was no relationship there, but a strange awareness of his place in the world. Part of my street smart upbringing leads me to stay away from people who are homeless. There’s too much at risk as a woman. Yet, I saw Turtle and maybe it is enough to recognize his existence.
Rest in peace, Turtle.
