I don’t want to talk with her. If I talk with, I’m reminded of how bad the situation is. I’m reminded of her delusions. I’m reminded of her struggles, her vulnerability. I’m reminded that I can’t help her because she won’t let me.
I don’t want to try to find her, because I’m reminded how difficult it’s been the many times I’ve tried to find her before. I’m reminded of how she wouldn’t agree on a next meeting time when we went into shelter in place. I’m reminded of how many times she’s disappeared. How I wasn’t sure I’d see her again. How she’s 83 and she could die on the streets any day. I’m reminded how likely that this is where she’ll die even though it’s the last thing I want.
I’m tired of this. I’m tired of the grief, the crying the hopelessness. I’m tired of the risks she takes on a daily basis. I tired of a society that doesn’t care, that doesn’t do what needs to happen to keep her safe and healthy.
Still, I look at her bank account activity. I see where she is, what she’s doing, that she is. I see a withdrawal. I call the hotel to see if maybe she’s gotten her Covid-19 vaccine or maybe she’ll agree to get indoors if I arrange it. She’s already checked out and I’m reminded of every failed attempt to find her missing.