Behind The Locked Door

Isolation, Poverty, and the Meaning of Home

She met me on the sidewalk near a beautiful charming building on First Hill in Seattle. I loved old architecture and I became very excited about the possibility of what I imagined was a cute studio with character that I could make my home. Opening the building door, the excitement rushed out with the stale and mildew tainted air. She led me through the doorway into what would be my room: barely large enough for a small couch or bed, facing a corner toilet.

She was nice enough, definitely compassionate, and I really appreciated her effort. But as I stood there, I saw my dreams of a future start fading. I imagined myself alone in that room, day after day, staring at the corner toilet. I knew I would be giving away any kind of familial or even friendship bond that requires the kind of presence that just wasn’t available in this place. It wasn’t available under a bridge either, but I had friends there to share time and laugh with, and a somewhat kitchen — an open fire with a grate over it — where I would make meals for everyone. I adored the task of feeding the camp, doing it in a way that was full of love and nutrition. I woke to the sound of birds and opened my tent to lush greenery. I needed my community. I needed the hope of a home, not just a locked door. I needed the hope of imagining my family around a table again, my new grandchild toddling around, forming the grandmother relationship I wanted more than anything. Coming back to the reality I was facing, my heart sank.