Invisible People
J. Marshall Jenkins
As I age, I see invisible people whom
I once walked past in my youthful hurry.
Some literally shrink, with brittle bones bowing,
slow gaits, dim eyes, ears catching only echoes.
They wear a practiced smile. My late mother
retreated behind her smile, she whose listening
nourished me much as her milk, present and gone,
unseen amid the flux of her bustling church family.
Others we overlook for their body shape,
anomie, disability, dumb bad luck, or the wrong kind
of intelligence for the world in which they landed.
Many grope in loneliness that they despair of leaving.
Some youth scan their future like a sea,
panic for fear of drowning, and flee inland.
None of these chose this; yet, they must decide
whether to choose necessity, and what to do then.
Just enough people catch my eye and smile
to weaken the draw of anonymity. Love shows up
in the flesh every day, ready or not, calls my name,
clasps my shoulder, and points to an invisible person
walking with ear buds and dazed eyes. Meanwhile,
I have lost an inch, and I attend more funerals.
And those once invisible people keep walking,
looking past me as I try to catch their eyes.
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Invisibility is sometimes a way to stay safe.
Yes, indeed. I would never try to rush anyone out of that safety zone. But it is a lonely place to stay.