Anyone who has spent a summer in Tallahassee is familiar with the unbearable heat. Because of the heat, and often in spite of it, I go for my daily walks in the mornings before the sun turns my neighborhood into a convection oven.

The route I walk is the same route I walk during all four seasons. When the temperature is more moderate, I walk in the evenings just before sunset. In cooler weather, the restaurants I pass are bustling with patrons, eating, drinking, and enjoying the company of their dinner companions.

Now that I walk in the early morning hours, I see that there is a stillness that falls upon the businesses which I pass. The sidewalks are empty as are the streets. The absence of people and cars mimics the low tide of the ocean. Often when the waters recede, what lies beneath is now within sight.

As I make my way down Care Drive, I glance at the buildings that I’ve passed a thousand times before. However, this morning I notice something different.

A colorful tote bag hangs from the door handle of one of the medical offices. “Strange”, I think to myself. Perhaps a patient leaving something for the medical staff. My eyes move further below. It is then that I see her. An older woman, sound asleep, wrapped in a quilt. Upright bottles stand beside her. Oblivious to the morning light and the escalating heat, she continues to sleep. She has found sanctuary for the night and perhaps for the next few hours as well.

I continue on my way, wondering what it might be like to have no place to go when my body needs rest. As I walk down an adjacent street, the sidewalk empty, I spy a man in the distance, sitting on one of the picnic tables behind an office building. His belongings are scattered about him. He is awake, but apparently not ready to move. Perhaps he’s unsure as to what his next move will be.

As a health care professional involved in providing services and referrals to the residents of Leon County, my inability to adequately address the issue of housing insecurity is frustrating.

A block or so beyond, I come to the final leg of my walk. As I pass a thicket of woods to my left, I see a “No Trespassing” sign posted on a tree. Although no one is in sight, the unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke permeates the air. The unseen smoker, hidden deep within the woods, remains invisible to the eye.

Hidden from sight, or in plain view, my invisible neighbors often remain invisible.

My walk comes to an end. Their walk has yet to begin.

Mike Torres is a therapist and social service provider in Tallahassee, FL. 

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