Christmas With Elijah

1. Helping the Homeless

I silently giggle to myself as I open my Christmas advent calendar by the side of my bed. Sure, I’m 20, but I still enjoy a chance to have chocolate everyday and countdown to Christmas. As the chocolate melts slowly in my mouth, I slip my thick embellished grey jumper over my head and drag my light wash jeans up my legs to get ready for my stint at the soup kitchen. It’s a yearly thing I got involved in a couple of years ago to give something back to society and it is incredibly rewarding. I tug on my black fur lined boots and do up the laces before throwing on my navy coat before heading downstairs.

Seeing as it’s my final year at university, I’m back at home with my parents for the Christmas season and conveniently am much closer to London where the soup kitchen is.  

‘I’m off out, Mum,’ I call out and hear a see you later in response.

After trudging across London, I make it to the warehouse that has been set up to cater for the soup kitchen for the homeless. I follow a procession of people who are also signing in to help and wait anxiously. I sign my name in and head off to the area I have been designated to work at, which is handing out the food to the stream of people who will be spending their day at the warehouse for a filling meal, warmth and a chance to talk to people in a safe environment. It still baffles me every year how there are so many people who are living on the streets and yet not a lot is done about it.

‘You’re over here, Matilda,’ a friendly older man named Roy informs me, pointing to food point B in the open expanse of the warehouse near the pop up kitchen. I look down at the meals I’ll be handing out and twist my lips. This could be the only meal some people get for a long time and that sends chills straight to my heart. No one should have to go through this, not least people in our own country and practically on our doorsteps.

Within minutes of the doors opening, a steady cue of people files in to collect their food and after handing the food out, we’re expected to socialise with the people who have turned up and are in need. As I hand over the Christmas dinner to the hundredth or so person, I look up to give them a friendly smile, but freeze instead.

Those eyes. That face. That height.

This person.

Immediately, I am transported back to a time of vulnerability and I feel an intense mixture of anger and confusion as I process who is standing in front of me.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I hiss without thinking. I clamp my hand over my mouth and blush at how rude I just was, but I am furious, furious to see him again.

‘Happy holidays to you too, Tilda,’ he mutters and take his plate from me and walks off to sit on a table as far away as he can be from me onto a table of his own. I can’t concentrate; I can’t help but look over at him, taking in his unruly, shaggy long hair, tattered clothing and a patched up bag.

He looks a mess.

But wait a second. I just served him. I was serving him because he needs to be helped because he is homeless.

Noooooo. It can’t be true.  

‘Do you know him? You look like you’ve seen a ghost...’ A worker alludes, nodding his head in his direction.

I don’t respond as all I can do is think back to the time when I more than knew that boy, the time when we first met.  

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It was the middle of October and my flatmates and I were heading out for carnage student night, the bi-monthly event attended by the majority students. In truth, I didn’t really go out that much, once a week at the very most; be in to a club or bar, but I wasn’t that much of a party animal.