What if the Pope really did come to Chicago? Do you think it could have looked like this?
Cassie and The Pope
In the pre-dawn chill of the first day of autumn, peering out our front window, waiting for the plumbers to come fix decades of cheap, easy patches to the plumbing in our house that had left us with water cascading through walls, sewer gas permeating our souls and two stories of sludge from a stack pipe that should have been removed around the time that Herbert Hoover was President.
In the shadow of the streetlight, I thought I heard a truck door slam. Plumber's truck?
No, it was Cassie. Head down, skeleton frame in giant white gym shoes, pushing her shopping cart through the darkness.
Each morning she walks north past our little city cottage, crosses Irving Park Road, and continues north past the unmarked, engine running cop cars posted in front of the stately home of Mayor Rahm Emanuel.
Cassie walks alone. Pushing her shopping cart. Then come night time, she reverses her homeless commute. The sound I had heard was Cassie's shopping cart creaking. Not the plumber's truck.
Startled by the creaking noise, l looked out the window one more time and that's when I saw it. Didn't believe what I was seeing. I scrunched shut my eyes, looked again. And he was still there.
This morning, for the first time ever, Cassie wasn't alone. Walking next to her was Pope Francis. White robes reflecting the light of the coming dawn. Just the Pope and Cassie. How he got to Chicago, I don't know. Hard to believe.
So as not to disturb, and forgetting all about my plumbing problems, I slipped on some gym shoes, slid out my front door and down the steps to follow.
Cassie and the Pope. Neither said a word. Their footsteps slapping the pavement in rhythm. They stopped for a moment at Irving Park Road. I saw him point to the right. To the morning sun rising over the lake to the east. Turning right, they kept walking till they came to the diner. The smell off morning coffee in the air.
I saw the Pope hold the door open for Cassie. She hesitated, and then went in. Neither of them speaking.
Three other early morning diners on the red topped stools at the silver counter staring wide eyed in disbelief. The counterman comes over with a coffee pot. The Pope nods yes and the man pours the coffee into the thick white coffee mugs.
The Pope nods. Looks straight at Cassie, who raises her weary head. And for the first time in anyone's memory.
Cassie smiles.
The Pope had come to Chicago, too.
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