The morning air is crisp and frosty, its frigid breath shatters the delicate cardinal leaves as they dance at my feet. There is a steady breeze, which carries the salty smell of the sea. Golden rays of light filter through leaves of the large oak tree which stands tall and proud, guarding the front of our house. A fine layer of dew coats the ground and thin blades of grass along our walkway, giving the world a slight glimmer.
“Isabelle, hurry up. We’re going to be late,” my mother calls from the car.
“Coming,” I reply as I turn and dash for the black Honda Pilot tucked in its usual spot right up against the strip of dead grass and dirt, littered with discarded trash.
I climb into the back seat and immediately I am enveloped in a cocoon of warmth. I slam my door shut and sink back in my seat.
We pull out of our parking lot and turn right.
My mom turns on the radio and “Ring of Fire” pours from the speakers. I was probably the only eight year old who’s favorite song was by Johnny conCash. Heck I was probably the only eight year old who knew who Johnny Cash was.
“Mama where are we going?” I ask as she kept going straight at the second traffic light instead of turning towards the high way. This wasn’t the way to school.
“We have to stop at the post office.”
To our left, I can just see what remains of this year’s rose garden, the once vibrant petals now wilted and dull. A woman lays on the wet grass under the old oak tree just outside the gardens. She is covered with only a worn down jacket and a billowing newspaper.
We drive past the run down gas station with wanted flyers plastered on its door, past the flashing yellow lights suspended above the street. Past the Binga’s Wingas that used to be a cute little diner. I still remember sitting in one of the red vinyl booths with my dad and cousins one summer morning, eating a large stack of pancakes drenched in syrup and laughing. Just laughing.
As we drive through the third intersection, the city divides. Behind us is the more up-kept part of town. It is cleaner, the buildings are more presentable and the neighborhoods are safer, if only by a little bit. On the other side of the invisible line the buildings are all old and falling down but, not in the sometimes appealing, historical sense. No, there is nothing appealing about the homes and apartment buildings that line this trash-strewn street. There is a small drugstore tucked between two larger complexes that look extremely sketchy. A small group of guys stand out front, smoking and cussing, occasionally making obscene gestures with their hands. This part of town always makes me feel unsafe. We don’t usually come this way, taking the longer route up and around was always a more favorable option. But this was quicker and we were going to be late.
A little farther up the street we come to the food pantry and homeless shelter. A long line of shivering men and women huddled together, snaking its way down the side walk.
“Mama, why are those people dressed so funny?” my little brother asks. The majority of the growing crowd is clothed in tattered rags. Many of them don’t have coats on, and the ones that do held onto them for dear life.
The doors to the food pantry open and a small group of people enter. The line moves forward.
“They don’t have the money to buy new clothes,” my mom explains. “You know, not everyone is as lucky as us. We may not have everything, but at least we have a roof over our heads and food on the table.”
Their faces look so worn down. So tired. So lonely. For many, the sheer act of standing up seems to take more energy than they have to offer.
Just last week I was whining when my mom wouldn’t take me to get a new book. Now, it seemed so stupid. These people didn’t have homes, they didn’t have beds to sleep in, many of them barely had any food to eat.  I have a beautiful home, a warm cozy bed, and food on my plate every night. I have a loving family, a wonderful dog, and a great group of friends. I have all of this and I was still asking for more.
That morning on Preble Street I realize just how stupid I was for thinking my life was over simply because my mom wouldn’t take me to get a book.
As we come to the stop light at the end of the street, I crane my neck to see behind me. A few stray pieces of newspaper flutter down the street, and an eerily calm feeling has settled over Preble Street. As we pull away and turn the corner I watch the people in line until they disappear from view.