The Blue

          I think they were living together in a makeshift trailer compound on the end Ambrosio Street, our first, temporary, address in Santa Fe, a mashup of ruins and renovations. She looked to be my daughter's age, maybe 25, and pretty, but ravaged by whatever she'd been putting herself through, for however long. He looked to be much older, though he could have been any age between 21 and 50. His face was a mask of scar tissue, fixed in an expression that effectively communicated his pain, street-smarts, and complexity. He was tall, smelled of the streets, and wore many tattered layers against the cold weather; on his head he always wore a knit wool Peruvian cap with flaps and long tassels. We saw them walking, zombie-like, past our place maybe twice a week. Once, when we were outside, the girl asked me for money. She looked past me or through me and begged with as ease that suggested a very long practice. She was obviously high or low on some combination of drugs, and she broke my heart. She was lovely and deeply wounded. I had nothing but a few dollars to offer. Though I saw her and greeted her with some frequency thereafter, she never betrayed any sign that she'd met me before.
          Apparently the two of them moved on at some point, as we no longer saw or met them on Ambrosio Street, and the trailer compound they'd inhabited looked abandoned. Then, a few months later, in the summer, I saw her downtown, near the plaza. She was not with her lanky, ghoulish partner. She asked me, as she was asking many others, for money. She was dirty and dressed in near-rags. Again she looked past me and gave no indication that she had ever seen me before. It was likely, I thought, that whatever her drug regimen had been, it had done serious damage to her brain. I wondered if she had a father somewhere wondering where on earth she was and sick with worry; or if perhaps she'd had a father that abused her and sent her on this path. I saw my own daughter in her and felt despair. Don't misunderstand, I did nothing to help, except transfer a few more dollars through her to her suppliers. Since that day well over a year ago, I have not seen her on the streets. I would frankly be surprised, though relieved, to learn that she is alive; though she was hardly alive then.
          As for her partner, I did see him again, just a few weeks ago. It was late, cold, and snowing; my shift at Trader Joe's had just ended. He was dressed the same, bundled in Goodwill layers against the cold, the same wool Peruvian hat on his head. He was hanging out near the store. I tried again to determine his age, but couldn't find a clue. Our eyes met, and a faint recognition of me registered in his eyes. I wondered if my recognition of him registered at all, or if my impassivity veiled it entirely, though he was my son, and she my daughter.