What are you running from, lady on the street?

I was walking down the hill in front of Brooklyn Hospital on my way to work yesterday morning, taking in the traffic and the bustle of the late-morning commuters. If there were so many people rushing to work at 9 a.m. on a Thursday in Fort Greene, what must Midtown be like? I've never worked in Manhattan; I live and work in Brooklyn, my borough. I like it here.

The downward slope walking from Fort Greene Park toward the Q,B,N,R, station at DeKalb Avenue provides a glimpse of the urban grit I adore about Brooklyn. A contstruction site, a big intersection, little bodegas and a few fruit stands line the busy, one-way Dekalb Ave. Long Island University's Brooklyn campus sits at the base fo the hill, and on my morning commute dozens of tennis-shoe wearning, backpack-toting teenagers trudge up the hill toward me, overworked and underslept.

Yesterday though, there was an interruption to my predicatable little routine. As I approached a smaller intersection, a woman rounded the corner towards me. She was running, with her long, dull brown hair flying behind her. Her eyes were glazed over. This woman was in another place emotionally; she wasn't just running, she was running from something. I was startled, and I instictively took a step back and clutched my bag, expecting to see a man chasing after her.

As she ran towards me I took in the full impact of her crazed sprint. She was braless, but there were no breasts to bounce as she ran. Her hair was down and her clothes looked like she'd slept in them - not running clothes by any stretch of the imagination. Her ribs showed as the air through which she forced her scrawny frame pressed against her white t-shirt, and her hip bones jutted forward through her navy blue sleeping pants. Dark tennis shoes on her feet, this woman had undoubtedly rolled out of bed, looked in the mirror, and taken off on a sprint down the street.

I wanted to stop her...wanted to put my hands on her shoulders and say, "It will be okay." I wished that I had the power of people I've known in the past whose hand on shoulder has brought with it such a sense of peace. I wanted her to be okay, and I wondered if she would be.

What are you running from, lady on the street? What is there behind you that's so bad that you need to run, eyes-glazed over, hair tangling behind you, up Dekalb Avenue? What are you running from?

I almost subconsciously said a prayer for her as her presence faded behind me and I continued on my walk to the Q to start my work for the day. The woman's face, ribs, and hips are still sketched in my memory. I hope that whatever it is that she's running from, she'll eventually find what she's running twoard.