by Sarah Frankfurth

She's got a few plastic bags filled with clothes in front of her and periodically she rouses from the deep nod that she's in and slowly (and painfully it looks like) rummages through the bags and pulls out a sweater and tries to fold it or finds a scarf and drapes it over the back of her neck. This creature is kind of tall, rail thin, with shaggy dyed red hair, white pants, a brown and blue plaid sportscoat, and seems to have a hunch. Probably from spending most of her life bent over at the waist with her arms dangling.

It's amazing, because even though she's motionless in her nod for long periods of time, she doesn't tip over. or sit down and give up on this strange task that she's determined to finish. I tried to make out the face behind the raggedy curtain of hair when I walked by her earlier, but all I saw was skin that looked like silly putty and the indistinct features that looked like they were dissolving. I can see her from my window and I watch the people who pass by her; they turn to look at her and I can read the incredulity in their movements. The amazement that this woman is actually accomplishing this feat. That her heart is still beating and her poisoned blood is still pumping and that she's still balanced, bent over at the waist, her finger tips grazing the sidewalk, utterly motionless, like someone pressed the pause button. Which is what it looks like. She'll start to do something, like put a piece of paper in her pocket and then she'll nod out with her hand partly in and the motion will remain frozen, half executed, until later when she surfaces for a moment and pushes the paper all the way into her pocket, takes her hand out and begins to rummage for something else, gently swaying until she nods out again and freezes up with a shirt dangling in her wrinkled grip.