Jordan's Journey Home

JORDAN’S SEARCH FOR HOME

“I’m cold and hungry,” I say in a soft whisper to no one in particular. I am alone, huddled up in a cardboard box in an alleyway. I can hear the rain as it softly falls on the outside of my makeshift refrigerator-box shelter. I don’t remember when I have eaten. How long has it been since I felt clean? Will I ever feel safe again? If only I could find my way home.
“Jordan, are you in there?” I hear Pam call out.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I reply. “Come on in and join the party.” As Pam lifts up the door flap, I feel the cold rush of dampness as it sneaks its way in to penetrate the very inner most parts of my being. I shudder from the top of my head to the tips of my toes as I wrap my arms around myself trying to recapture a little bit of warmth.
“Hurry, shut the door,” I yell at her. “I’m so cold.”
“Want to go out and look for food?” she asks.
“Where can we go?” I ask. “We have looked for two days and have found nothing.”
“Well, perhaps our luck will change” she says. “Besides, what else is there to do but stay huddled up in this box and sleep the day away?
“Okay, let’s go, but if we don’t find something soon, then I’m coming back,” I reply.
“It’s a deal”, she says.
We open up the door flap and find the rain has stopped. The sun is peaking through the large, ominous storm clouds. We climb out, straighten up our clothes, spit wash our face and hands and start down the alleyway towards the hustle and bustle of city life.
“Let’s try the Mexican place over on Greene Street,” Pam suggests.
“I’m not in the mood for Mexican, “I reply.
“Ha, ha, funny,” she says and at the same time giving me that beggars-can’t-be-picky look.
“Whatever, I don’t care,” I tell her.
As we start in the direction of Greene Street, there is a loud screeching noise followed by a loud bang. A large van has rammed into the side of a city bus. We stop and lean up against the street lamp to watch what will happen next. This is the most excitement we have witnessed in days. Life in a box is very boring. People are running in different directions. I hear the faint sound of a siren. Traffic begins to separate to allow the police car and ambulance to get through.

“Help, help,” I hear a weak voice saying.
“Did you hear anything?” I ask Pam.
“What did you say?” I answer.
“I thought I heard a voice calling for help.” I say. “A very weak voice.”
“How can you hear anything with all this noise?” I ask.
“Help me, please”, a small voice comes from the nearby park.
“Hey, did you hear that?” I say as I’m running towards the park.
Behind a large yellow rose bush I find a young girl who is holding her head in her hands. She has cuts and bruises on her face and I see she has a large cut on her leg.
“Hey, what happened to you?” I ask.
“I was walking along the sidewalk and then suddenly something hit me and knocked me over into the bushes,” she tells me. “My head hurts and I think I cut my leg.”
“Pam, we need to get help,” I say as I’m checking the leg wound.
“No, no, please don’t do that,” the young girl tells me with a frightened look.
“But you need help, you are hurt,” I reply.
“Just help me up,” she says. “I’ll be fine just as soon as I can stand up.”
“Okay, what is your name?” I ask.
“Sarah,” she tells me.
“Where do you live,” I ask.
“I used to live in Buffalo, but now I live here on the street,” she answers me.
“Where is your family?” I ask hoping to get some help for her.

“I don’t know where my family is now, “she replies. “I was in a foster home and then I ran away.”
“Well, we live on the street too, “I say pointing to Pam and back at myself. “We were looking for lunch when the accident happened,” I explain. “Do you feel like coming with us?” I ask.
“Thanks, I’m really hungry,” she says as she gives us both a look of gratitude.
We start walking again towards Greene Street. We are just three girls on a journey to find our next meal.
“I lived in Buffalo when I was small,” I tell Sarah. “I lived in a white house with green shutters on Oakland Avenue. My mom and dad died and I was put in a foster home and I don’t know what happened to my sister.”
“Me too, me too,” she cries out with excitement in her voice.
She takes out a small coin purse tucked in the back pocket of her blue jeans. She snaps open the catch and shows me a picture of a white house with green shutters. I notice the street sign in the picture says Oakland Ave.
“This is all I have left of my family,” she says. “Just a picture of a place that I don’t even remember.”
“It’s my house. I remember the broken front step,” I say with tears in my eyes.
“Is it possible?” she asks. “Could we be sisters?”
“I think my journey has brought me to my sister,” I say as I embrace Sarah.
“We are family now,” she says as we begin to talk about going back home. The trip home may only be in our minds, but we are home at last. Home is family, after all, isn’t it?