Death is a distant rumor to the young. ~Andrew A. Rooney

         My cousin, Michael, knows me all too well. As soon as we get to the hospital door, he scoops me up into his big, restraining arms. I have always had a particular dislike for hospitals.When I think of hospitals, I think of sickness and death, things that I wished to never encounter. I should have wished harder.  As he cradles me against his chest, I try to bury my  face deeper and deeper into his shirt attempting to cover up the smell of bleach and death. I don't want to see where we are, all I want to do is stay in Michael's protective arms until everything is over. I hear familiar voices slowly creeping towards us along with many unfamiliar voices. I want to be rude and tell them to go away  because I am afraid they will take me away from Michael, but by the way he pulls me closer, I know he won't let them. I can hear the doors opening and closing, and opening and closing as more and more people file in. As I peer over Michael's shoulder, I see doctors rushing around pushing carts, which makes me wonder what part of the hospital we are in. Almost as soon as I thought this, I found the answer. The salty taste of tears mixes with the metallic taste I get before I get sick. I see the blurs of strangers all around me, I feel their unfamiliar, sympathetic strokes and pats. It makes no difference, they don't understand. I am ten years old, this shouldn't happen to anyone my age.

"Come What May"

     I can recall several insidents that have occured throughout my life where I was riding in the cool air-conditioned car with my mom on a simmering June summer day.  I absent mindedly would peer out the car window at the trees and buildings that would rush by as we made our way into town. Then, all of a sudden, I would see someone on the side of the road, wearing dirty  rags,  holding a sign that stated that they were in need of help. I would strain my neck to the fullest point to try to read every word on that piece of cardboard so I could learn what they were yearning for. After reading whatever I was able to make out of the writing, I can remember the sadness and pain that I would feel for that person who was begging for help.
     When I was in the third grade I wrote an article about a homeless man that was put in the paper. I had been grocery shopping with my mom at Wal-Mart. We were pulling out of the parking lot when I spotted a homeless man on the side of the road, and he was holding a cardboard sign that said he was hungry and he needed help. So, I thought that since we had just bought our grocery's from the store, we should give this man some food. When I suggested the idea, it was quickly shot down. My mom's reason was that you never know what they may do. What "they" may do. This poor homeless person was referred to as a "they." Ever since then, I have wondered how many people see a homeless person and refer to them as a "they." I have always been very sensitive to homeless people because I see them as helpless. If only someone would lift them off of their feet, then they could fly and do something great. But, unfortunately, most people are afraid to be involved with homeless people and prefer to keep their distances from them like homeless people disease will rub off on them or something.
     I was recently inspired by a poem that I came upon called "Come What May." This poem was written by a girl who volunteered at a homeless shelter. http://www.wsjclassroom.com/cre/articles/09apr_sv_madrid.htm
I encourage everyone to read this thouroughly through. If you read this poem carefully, then I believe you will look at homeless people in a different way.

"Here at last are the Heroes you’ve been searching for,
They who constantly search for goodness,
For a way to better themselves every day,
For a way to be everyday Heroes.
And they are.
Come what may they live life with
Courage and calm, pride and passion.
Like the epic heroes of old,
These Heroes are on a quest.
They show each person who comes to the brown house
The value of human dignity."