Project Angel Heart – The More I Write

Open fields were flattened into dusty pans by the Colorado sun, and an old thermostat shaped like a coke bottle read eighty-six degrees that noon. I stood in a narrow line of shade cast by a dusty porch pillar. A thin layer of dirt and cobwebs clung to the house’s beige siding, and behind me, the wide lawn was yellowed by heat. Rain refused to land in those weeks; wildfire smoke colored the sky day and night.

At my feet sat two bags of medically tailored, frozen meals that I volunteered to deliver to Project Angel Heart clients, all of whom live with a life-challenging illness. On this porch in a Denver suburb, I knocked and waited, hoping that a favorite client was well enough to make it to the door. As the sun baked my bare calves, I heard “Omar” approach. Tall and a bit stooped, he opened the door slowly, and smiled. One of his eyes was bluer than the other, and light shone from his brown skin like it does through oak leaves in November. I was fifty-two that summer and wouldn’t be surprised if Omar was twice my age.

When he asked how I was that day, I told him, I’m doing fine, but I get discouraged about this country sometimes, you know? Only six months earlier, President Obama had left office. Omar thought for a moment, leaning his tall body against the door frame. Then he touched his heart and said, Just look in here. Hand on chest, he reminded me: This is where it all starts.

A few Fridays later, Omar’s blue shirt bore a stain of food debris where a military honor might have been pinned. How are you doing? I asked him.

I feel pretty good, then not so good. He said. I got hope, though. I do have hope.

What are you hoping for?

Well, it’s a general hope, he told me, and the lines of his face softened. We got some problems in this world. But the Creator put it all there. Ain’t nothing missing.

That is the truth, I responded.

Here’s the thing, he went on, the inside and the outside, you know, one of those is more important. And that’s the inside. He looked past me into the distance. As he took a deep breath, the bones of his sternum rose, suggesting he could gently lift up and fly away. The subjective is the inside. And culture can’t touch that. That’s what my mother taught me. What we make on the inside? That’s the real culture.

I haven’t seen Omar in almost a year. I volunteer less often lately, and my routes are more varied. One of the last Fridays I saw him, Omar opened the door wide and invited me inside. I have a bag for you, he told me. In those pre-Covid days, volunteers returned clients’ delivery bags to Angel Heart’s office so they could be re-used.

I stepped from the porch into his living room. The house was bright inside, with a comfortable clutter of books and papers scattered about. A 1940’s jazz tune swirled out of his stereo.

How are you today? I asked.

I’m not so well. It’s hard when you’re old, he responded.

Well, I love the music you have on.

I don’t like the TV. I just listen to this all day. He waved his long fingers toward the stereo. It’s messy in here, he said, shuffling toward the kitchen. On the wall was a framed photo of a younger Omar, with round cheeks and dark hair. And amid family photos, a portrait of a brown-eyed Jesus gazed down from the wall. Reds and greens animated his Kente cloth robe as he held his hands out in welcome, at the table of communion.

Omar returned with the delivery bag. This music makes me want to dance, I said. He grinned at me and straightened his back.

Well, you go right ahead. I wish I could join you! He moved one foot out to the side, then back to the center again. Here we go! he said. We stood giggling together for a moment, with Jesus looking on.

I said, Well, you just gotta be sure and not dance too fast after I go. Take it easy now! He smiled, then lowered his head and walked me to the door.

Oh, I’ll be careful, don’t you worry. And thanks for the food. You take care out there!

I stepped off his porch, heading to my next delivery, as the door closed behind me.

Saturday, March 14th

I fly home to Denver after an abbreviated trip to Washington, DC. My phone is loaded with pictures of the Anacostia River bike path and Degas paintings I saw at the National Gallery. Boarding my connecting flight in St. Louis, children are everywhere, spring breakers heading to Colorado to ski. After landing at DIA, the concourse shuttle has a slowdown, and people press together like sardines as the train doors stand open. A toddler with brown hair and sparkly pink pajamas sucks her thumb as she rests her head on her mother’s shoulder. The child stirs and smiles at me, then reaches out for the vertical hand rail I am also grasping. Her mother says Don’t touch that! But it is too late–her fingers are encircling the shiny metal post. Quickly, tenderly, her mother holds the small wrist still while another woman drops hand sanitizer on the child’s pudgy fingers. Her mother rubs it in, kisses her daughter’s cheek. A moment later, the thumb goes back in her mouth, and her eyes drift closed. The shuttle departs for the main terminal.

Wednesday, March 18th

I am walking over to see my friend Pat, who had surgery while I was out of town. The sun is shining. I take long strides and feel soreness in my legs from biking the day before. Around the corner, my four year-old neighbor stands with her mother in front of a half-planted flower box. C has red hair and a piquant expression. Her mom and I say hello as I stand back and admire their purple and yellow and blue flowers.

Look, I am in my jammies! C exclaims. I might wear them all day!

I think that’s a great idea, I respond.

On Pat’s shady porch, I drop a plastic grocery bag with half a dozen eggs and a few cough drops. I knock, then retreat to the sunlit steps. She appears in the doorway, right arm in a sling and stylish gray hair parted on the side. You look great, I say. You don’t look like you had surgery a few days ago. She says, I feel pretty good, not having any pain. But, look, I’m still in my pj’s! They are lavender with a pretty print.

Friday, March 20th

Wet spring snow is plastered on the north side of every tree trunk and street sign, and the roads are rutted with frozen slush. I arrive for my Project Angel Heart delivery shift. They are short of volunteers. As I wait to receive my cart loaded with meal bags, I am arrested by the changed expressions of the bustling staff. Always kind, the planes of their faces today hold a determination and a focus that makes me straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. There is no small talk today. Some staff and volunteers here today are surely veterans of the AIDS crisis–all dedicated to the giving of food as medicine.

Midway through my route, I place three meal bags on a porch, ring the doorbell with my gloved hand, and stand back to wave a quick hello. A sleepy man comes to the door in tan sweat pants and says, Oh thanks! We both smile as he pulls the bags inside the house. Instantly, though, he is serious. In a gruff voice he asks: What in the world are you doing?! I’m startled for a moment, but then he adds, Put a hat on your head—it’s cold out there!