A Woman Died
A woman I know died this week.
Though she was a few years younger than me, she looked my mother’s age.
She used to come into the food pantry I served.
I’d tried talking to her a time or two – but she didn’t seem to want to interact.
I saw the signs – haunted, darting eyes, gaunt face.
I recognized the smell on her clothes and the sores on her face.
She was a meth addict.
She was also someone’s mother; someone’s daughter.
She was caught up in a hell of her own making.
For whatever reason, she never broke free.
Now, she’s dead – a victim of her own bad choices.
As much as I hated her bad habit, I can’t point a finger.