When my daughter asked if her boyfriend could spend the night, I said yes. 

He and his mom had a blowout argument and she ended up telling him to get out of the car they were sleeping in. Each night, they'd park at the Walmart up the road. You would never have been able to tell that they were doing anything more than looking up directions on the GPS. When his mother kicked him out, he had nowhere to go and nearly lost his mind. He thought about going to the police station, but decided not to because he didn't want to cause any trouble. I was his last resort for the night. 

When I looked at this kid with his skinny knees and eyes like saucers, I couldn't help but to see my own son. The prey-like fear in his movement. The resignation spelled out on his shoulders like a complex sentence. The hands that he didn't know what to do with, moving like a new driver behind the wheel of an unfamiliar car. He slept on the couch that night and left in the morning.

***

We couldn't have been older than ten. In the summers I'd go to my aunt's house. My aunt and my three cousins lived in a two bedroom apartment that sat atop an asphalt hill that had a steep incline that met the front stoop with cracked flatness. My aunt and the nextdoor neighbor would sit out on the steps while we kids ran in and out of the house, letting flies in  as the screen door banged behind us. 

***

It was the Monday after Easter. I went through my usual morning checklist. Brush teeth. Shower. Get dressed. Wake kids up. My daughter was not in her bed. I called her and demanded to know her whereabouts. "I need you to just trust me Mom", she said. And so I trusted her. 

Later, she told me that her boyfriend's car was dead; he had no way of getting to school. His initial plan was to skip school. My daughter objected, went to get him, took him to our house, let him take a shower, and took him to school.  

***

My aunt kept a bat behind the door. She was a big woman and as a child seemed like a giant. Every now and then my uncle and his friends would stumble in and try to come into the house and she would wield that bat like a battle axe with her hamhock arms and yell, You'd better get the fuck out of here! with extra bass in her voice. The drunken men would reach for her arm and beg to come inside for just a little bit, or to use the restroom. C'mon Barbara, they'd say. And she'd repeat her sentiment until they staggered down the steps, swaying on the rickety railing, trailing an odor of sweat and liquor behind them. 

***

That evening, my daughter and I rehashed the day's events while bawling our eyes out. My daughter kept repeating, "I just don't understand. It's just not fair." It had been four years since the boyfriend had slept in his own bed. She couldn't understand the oxymorons of the world. It occurred to me just how inexperienced she was. This was her first up-close experience with injustice. I wanted to protect her from it all, but obviously I couldn't. I can't. But what I could do was act. 

When I think of homeless people, I usually think of worn, dirty jeans. I think of intersections and spare change. I think of carriages full of plastic bags. I think of men talking to invisible foes. I think of bridges and sleeping bags. I think of libraries as spaces to pass the time until closing hours. I think of piss on the street. I think of liquor bottles in brown paper bags. I think of knit hats and leathery, sun-bitten skin. I think of trash cans and bottle deposits. I think of a city with commuters and business people and traffic lights and the hiss of cars slithering by. I think of everything but flesh. 

***

We played Road Runner, the land version of Marco Polo, because the closest thing to a swimming pool was the fire hydrant on the corner that every now and then someone would crack into and release the precious water. Most days though we contended with the heat through the distraction of the game. The neighborhood kids would gather and one person was it. The person who was it had to close their eyes while the other players sang, Road Runner, in metered intervals. 

One kid in particular, Tyrone was especially adept at the game and, when he was it, would target me. The kids said he had a crush on me and would sing the kissing song about us. Much too young for a boyfriend, I vehemently denied any affinity towards him and went out of my way to show him how much I didn't like him. 

***

The boyfriend came to live with me shortly after Easter and stayed for the next year and a half. In the beginning, he waited for something to break the spell. It took him several months before he was comfortable opening the refrigerator. He was quiet and polite, yet stayed to himself. 

I knew I was taking a leap. His mother wanted me to kick him out because she was understandably concerned about him staying with his girlfriend, but he didn't want to leave, and I wasn't going to close my door on him. Secure housing was dire, and she didn't want to go to a shelter at that time. And even if they did, the boyfriend was entering his senior year and would soon have a myriad of events to go to. He often worked past eleven. If he did go to the shelter, he would have a nine o'clock curfew. I know this wasn't my problem. But it cost me nothing to help another human being out. To make sure that a kid not only had a place to sleep, but that he would have a sense of stability. 

***

My mother got a call from my aunt. She is crying, and soon we will be too. At about nine o'clock at night, Tyrone and his sister showed up on her stoop crying. Their mother had handed each of them a hot dog, locked them out and left. My aunt took them in for the next few nights. She found out that Tyrone and his sister had been on the street for several nights before they broke down and asked for help.  

I remember not understanding how the world could be so cruel. How could this kid, who was my age and just as vulnerable as me be on the streets?

***

I have gotten criticism for my choice in helping this young man. People have asked me why I would get involved. That it's not my problem. I have been criticized for bringing the boyfriend into the house. I have been accused of trying to save the world. Of bringing in a wounded animal. And I've questioned my decision. Was I being naive in thinking that I could help the situation? Wasn't this situation bigger than me? Was I trying to save the world? My grandmother always said my eyes were bigger than my stomach. And the answer to all of those questions is yes. I know that I don't have the power to save everyone, but I do believe I can help one. 

I couldn't turn away. This was a kid who had no choice in the matter. A kid who deserved to have the security of knowing that he will have a place to wash his ass and to lay his head down at night. A kid who shouldn't have to fall asleep in class because he has to work late nights to help support himself and his mother. A family  that fell under unfortunate circumstances that could happen to anyone. 

I know bringing essentially a stranger into my home could have gone left. And I know that I couldn't have solved the problems that landed the boyfriend and his mother on the streets. But what I could do was share my resources. I had an extra room. He bought his own groceries. He spent his days alternating between studying and working. His mom was still very involved, so I didn't have to worry about his needs beyond housing. 

And as I got to know him, I grew attached to him. I wanted him to have the same opportunities as my kids. I knew that if I could help remove some of his stress by giving him housing security, he would take off. This kid was at his breaking point. If something didn't change for him, I feared that he would run away and then who knows what he would have gotten into.

***

I don't know what happened to Tyrone. Shortly after his stay with my aunt he went back to his mother. I often wonder if his mother's neglect continued. If he slept on park benches. Or if he found other kind souls willing to take him in. Or if social services got involved. My cousins would run into him periodically, but I never saw him again after our days of playing outside. 

***

It's been a year since the boyfriend left. He is now enrolled in college and has an apartment with his friends. He works full-time and has a busy schedule. We keep in contact although he is no longer “the boyfriend”. 

When I took him in, I told him that I wasn't doing this for free. I told him that I was buying his empathy. That I wanted for him to help the next person when he was in a position to do so. 

-Reverie Koniecki

Reverie Koniecki is an African American poet and educator living in Dallas, Texas. Reverie is currently working towards her MFA in Poetry at New England College. Her poems and prose have appeared in Entropy, Thimble Magazine, and Off the Margins.