The year I went to New York City was the year I stopped talking to Mary. Mary had always been a friend, and adviser. When I was little, I didn’t even realize that she didn’t have a home or a family. She was always dirty, but that made me worship her even more; as a kid, I hated baths. She was never mean or malicious; in fact, when I started walking to school in secound grade, she would walk with me. She was very smart; she helped me with homework when I got older. She had a dog named Sparky and carried her things in plastic bags. She was a staple in our town. People brought her food and clothes, but she always refused money. I loved Mary-she was my role model.

When I was ten, my family took a vacation to NYC . I walked the streets with my family, seeing a new homeless person on each corner. They sneered and jeered and yelled for money. They slept on the sidewalks and abused their doggy companions. I hated them. They were so different from Mary. But finally I made the connection. And Mary faded away.