The Daydreamer Walk to the Pantry

​Today wasn’t just a walk to the pantry.

It was a reminder.

The past few times I had gone to this particular pantry — Each One Teach One — they weren’t open. Every time I walked there and saw the doors closed, it felt like an emotional dip. Not anger. Not bitterness. Just that quiet, tired feeling of, “Alright… I guess not today.”

But today, the doors were open.

And Mercedes was there.

The first time I met her, she was warm — the kind of church-hearted warmth that doesn’t feel forced. Just natural. Cordial. Present. The type of Black woman who makes you feel seen in conversation. Today she was alone, holding it down, and just as kind as before.

She gave me a loaf of bread, some canned goods, and a box of chocolate cupcakes. Simple items. Necessary items. But what mattered more was the conversation that came with them.

The reason the pantry hadn’t been open some days was because of her grandson.

He’s been struggling with his mental health. Behavioral issues. His mother isn’t really present. His father — her son — has passed away. So she’s raising him, navigating his moods, his medication, and the weight of being the primary support system.

It struck me immediately.

Here I am, working on a short film about battling depression and mental health… and she’s living her own version of that struggle at home.

We talked about father figures. About medication. About influence. About what a young boy needs when structure and stability feel fragile.

I shared a little of my own history with my father. He was around, technically. But being present and being a positive influence are not always the same thing. We don’t talk much now. And I made sure not to overstep — I wasn’t trying to tell her how to raise her grandson — but I offered something gently:

If someone doesn’t want to take their medication, sometimes giving them the space to choose can make them feel trusted. Less forced. More respected. Trust can change the dynamic. Autonomy can build responsibility.

She listened. Really listened.

And then we drifted into something unexpected — her history in the same neighborhood I currently live in. I had mentioned my own living situation, the complications with my landlord, the quiet pressure that sometimes leads me to a pantry in the first place.

She told me she raised her boys in that same area for fifteen years.

Quiet neighborhood, she said.

And I smiled, because I know exactly what she meant. I’ve lived that quiet. The kind where life happens behind closed doors and nobody really knows the full story of the person next to them.

Our conversation went on so long that I missed the bus.

I had to carry the canned goods and bread and cupcakes all the way home.

A small regret.

But not really.

Because what I gained was heavier in meaning than what I carried in my hands.

There was something reassuring about knowing that the pantry wasn’t closed those other days out of neglect or indifference. It was closed because life was happening. Because a grandmother was choosing her grandson over routine. Because mental health doesn’t run on schedule.

As I walked home, balancing my groceries, something else happened.

Earlier, on my way to the pantry, someone had waved at me. I didn’t recognize him at first. On the walk back, I realized it was an old friend — someone who had been to the Hall of Daydreams before. We used to hang out, but I never actually knew where he lived.

Turns out, he lives right there on that street.

We talked for a bit. It was easy. Familiar.

And then I noticed his mailbox.

Rainbow-themed. Full of color. Full of heart.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m big on heart symbolism. On love as a principle. On visible reminders that humanity can be soft.

That mailbox felt like a quiet sign.

Today was about giving.

Mercedes giving food.

Me giving a little vulnerability.

A grandmother giving her life to raising her grandson.

An old friend giving a wave.

A rainbow mailbox giving color to an ordinary street.

It reminded me that we rarely know what someone else is carrying.

I might have thought those earlier walks were pointless. I might have assumed inconvenience. But behind closed doors was a grandmother navigating grief, responsibility, and a young boy’s mental health.

And today, the door was open.

So was the conversation.

So was the heart.

Even if I had to carry the cans home, I carried something else too — proof that good humanity still exists. That people are trying. That kindness is still out there, sometimes in church-toned voices and chocolate cupcakes.

And for that, I’m grateful.