Every time we leave this charming little house on Bonaly Brae, it’s like entering a different world. Last night, Chris, James, Geoffrey and I ventured out again into the City Centre. It was a little earlier than it was last week, so we didn’t see quite as much stumbling around. But within a few minutes of strolling down George Street, Princes Street, and back over to the pub-lined Rose Street, we encountered a couple who was fighting.
The guy had evidently done something to really upset the girl, who was not ashamed to let him know. She kept running off…he’d chase her…she’d run off…he’d go after her again…I wanted to grab her, to duck into some quiet corner, and let her cry. I wanted to help her find a true love that would never forsake her. That would never betray her. That would bright light back into her smile. But for last night, her eyes were so sad.
Later, we passed a girl on the street, sitting under a blanket. She couldn’t have been any older than me. I reached into my wallet to see if I had any money to give her, but all I had was a few American quarters. As we walked by, I tried making eye contact with her, but she stared straight ahead. Her eyes were so sad.
As we finished up the night, we were met by an elderly woman – probably in her sixties. You can tell from looking at her yellowed, spotted skin she had some sort of liver disease. Alcohol had wrecked her body and mind. She asked for some money, but none of us had any.
At some point, this old, homeless lady was a baby girl. A child with hope in her laugh and skin as smooth and soft and rosy and that has a scent which only comes from a small child’s skin (and that is a mix of the smells of babypowder and what I’d imagine the sun smells like.) I’m sure at some point she had a best friend. She had a doll. She became a young woman. She fell in love. She stared up into the night sky and dreamed.
But last night, those eyes that may have held so much promise and light were sad. Her eyes were so sad.
As we got in the car to leave, there was a girl sitting in front of some flats. She was dressed to go out, but she was sitting alone, having a smoke, and staring off into space. Her lips were turned down at the corners. Her shoulders, slumped over; her head, resting inside her other hand. For some reason, her eyes seemed the saddest of all. I’m not sure why.
As loud as the nightlife is here in Edinburgh, there’s a haunting silence. It’s a quietness you can’t hear, only see. It’s a quietness that has given up hope. Given up love. Given up meaning.
It’s a quietness I’ll remember long after I leave.
(Painting: Untitled, Wisam Rady)
