Every evening, just as shadows reclaim the day, she takes her seat in a rickety chair beneath the old overpass—a spot long forgotten by pedestrians but remembered by those who see beyond appearances. This is Priscilla, an unmistakable presence in the neighborhood, whose daily ritual is as much about survival as it is a statement of self.
Her legs—swollen until they’ve ballooned to three times their normal size—tell a story of neglect and pain. She’s mentally ill, fiercely independent, and astonishingly direct. Cross her, and she’ll unleash a verbal storm—but earn her affection, and you’ll meet a woman whose sweetness glows in otherwise bleak surroundings.
I’m the officer who visits her. For many, this task seems inexplicable—but every call to check on her, every exchange under that bridge, draws me closer to understanding something irreducible, something real.
One night, I found her foot—it was an open wound, flesh rotting away, weeping fluid that attracted flies. It was heartbreaking. I’d called an ambulance before; she refused. Not out of rebelliousness alone, but out of fear: fear of hospitals, fear of surrendering control.
That night, I brought bactine spray—sterile and stinging. She recoiled from the spray like it was fire. Her face twisted in terror, tears tumbling down her cheeks. “It’s going to hurt,” she hissed. I knelt there and gently applied it, all the while thinking how strange it is that a moment so small—a foot washed—could feel like everything.
I offered snacks: hot Cheetos, beef sticks, comfort food for those who still crave normalcy. She shot me a glare, laughed, and barked, “Where’s the pizza?” It was a joke, yes—but one that revealed her longing for control, for ordinary pleasures, for familiarity in a life that had stripped so much away.
Something in me broke. At that moment, amidst flies and pus and laughter, I wondered: who will bear Jesus for someone like her? Who will wash feet that society has chosen to ignore? Because there, on that grimy cement, I understood my calling. This—the rescue of small, tender souls—is why I wear a uniform. Not the glory. Not the muscle cars or the movies. The quiet kneeling, the whispered reassurances, the cleaning of wounds invisible to most.
I remain convinced that behind every harsh word lies a heart screaming for hope. Behind every refusal, a person longing for dignity. It’s bitterly ironic that those who are tasked to protect and serve find their own humanity awakening when serving the unattended, when protecting the wounded.
So tonight, as I tighten the straps of my boots and step into darkness, I carry Priscilla’s image with me: her defiance and frailty woven together, an emblem of the broken and beautiful human spirit. And I pray I never forget the warmth of her tears—not because she’s helpless, but because we almost lost someone irreplaceably alive.