Anyhow, I was driving up Alcatraz the other day when I saw a sight out of Fellini. An elderly woman was standing in the middle of the street with cars passing on either side...and she clearly did not know she was in the middle of the street. It was not even clear if she could even see much in front of her. She had her arms out; she was shuffling.

I stopped my car.

I realized, then, that in all likelihood I was one of the last "strangers" D will ever meet, one of the last neighbors she will chat with about life and children and where she's from. This created a surge of mixed feelings for me. I felt a sense of pride that we had actually managed to get the mints. I felt a sense of failure in that D was returning someplace that she really shouldn't ever have left alone. It was unforgiveable she had ended up in the street. I felt saddened, however, that her home was someplace that cuts her off from the world of her neighbors. I couldn't also help but incorrectly feel that in "handing her over" I was in some sense failing D. Of course, the wiser part of me realized that I was doing what was necessary at the same time; in fact, I was doing what I would want done for me or mine.

In saying goodbye I wanted to tell D, "God bless you," which I guessed would mean something to her. But all I could get out was..."It was nice to meet you, too" before I turned away, hiding my face and my feelings from the health care workers who rapidly, and quite appropriately, took over. I could hear them blithely chide D for leaving. It was remarkable to me how nonplussed they were that I had found her in the street. At the same time it was very clear that these were the people who cared for D; these were the people who looked out for her.