I see her frequently on the street,
often arguing,
sometimes yelling
at the voices in her head.
She used to live in the alleys and
the wooded areas around the city,
but lately I’ve seen that she is showered,
has a healthy glow,
and that her weight is good from eating well.
She must be living somewhere now,
with a family member perhaps,
a public supporter,
or a good Samaritan.
I like to imagine that she lives in a house,
in a bedroom above the garage
that catches the morning sun,
that she sleeps on a daybed with lots of
pillows of various colours and textures,
and a comforter with a green
or possibly a pink cover,
that hanging over a beige chair
near her bed is a quilt with the image
of a large sunflower centred on it,
that her walls are decorated
with hanging artwork,
ones she painted herself,
preferring lighter-coloured pastels
and abstract designs
that she finds calming and serene,
and that someone helps her
clean her room regularly.
I imagine she finds peace in her room
in her lucid moments,
even happiness from time to time.
I don’t need to imagine
that she is loved
because clearly,
she is.