Why is That?

Why is that?

She'd sat in the park, on the same bench, every day for twenty years.
Nobody noticed her. They didn't know her. They didn't care that they
didn't know her. They saw her shabby clothes and unwashed hair and saw
no more than that.

She smelt of rotting cabbage on a good day. She wore fingerless gloves
and underneath her fingernails like a black French manicure, muck had
accumulated from years of scrabbling through dustbins and fighting to
survive.

She slept with her back to the pavement, blocking out the noise and
smell of the traffic and the people walking by.
She didn't want sympathy. She chose to live the way she did but she
dreamt of family long gone. She dreamt of peace and release from it
all.

Sometimes she sat on that same bench for hours and hours, drinking from
litre bottles of strong cider. She would wet herself and didn't care.
Often she would throw up and let the vomit trickle down her raincoat,
making yet another stain.
Shrinking away from reality she blocked out the present and let in the
past. The past was a happy time. A warm time. A time of birthday
parties and candles. Christmas cake and mistletoe. Hugs.

No one noticed her until she was gone.
"Anyone seen Annie lately? They would ask.
"Annie who?" Some would say.
"You know, you must have noticed her?"
"Come to think of it I haven't seen her for quite awhile". Then they
went about their business. The momentary stab of concern or guilt was
soon gone.

Nobody attended the funeral, not even a flower. Nobody cried at her
passing. The priest said a few words about the Roxanne Emily Parker he
didn't know and sent her off to God with a clear conscience.

Why is that?