Dirty Hands
Small, brown hands grab my jeans. A little boy or girl, I'm not sure which gender, kisses my feet. Underneath the shaved head and caked dirt is a pair of sunken, round eyes and a swollen belly.
You can't be older than two or three, still waddling like a toddler unsure on your feet. My heart wants to melt, but instead it freezes over. I've seen extreme poverty, but this goes beyond that. I look around for your caretaker, knowing that this is the person using you for money. I spot him. He's across six lanes of traffic, meaning you made your way across that busy street to get to me. Anger courses through my veins. I hold my breath until you scamper away.
You belong to no one. Born into this world unwanted except by those born into the same circumstance. They need you for money. So you grew up like a homeless dog eating scraps out of trash bags on the side of the road. You never felt the kindness of a mother's breast, all covered up in her arms. You never tasted warm milk, the least we can give a hungry child. Your cries aren't for milk or comfort, they're for a rupee here or there in exchange for a bite of food to stop your tummy from burning. You're an animal trained for tricks, a business venture; that's how they see you.
Where do you sleep at night? I sometimes pass by and think I see you curled up under a tarp next to the stray dogs. Your chest rises and sinks as your tiny heart beats under a thin layer of bones, the skin still soft but stretched tight like a bed sheet. Night is your Caretaker, your only break from the desperation of daylight. You don't cry, you learned to self-soothe a long time ago.
Your underdeveloped brain may not fully comprehend what's happening, but when I looked into your eyes I saw a flicker of want. Hold me, rock me to sleep, and don't wake me up.
I was born into loving arms, planned, desired, held, and cherished. You were born into neglect and bitterness, forgotten, pushed away. You bring me pain, guilt and doubt when I look at you, that maybe God isn't really watching over you. This is why I can't think about you for long. This is why I'm not free in my "blessedness"; you haunt my dreams. All I can do for you is cry in hopes that it changes something. May God scoop you into His arms soon because I'm not ignorant enough to think your situation will improve.
If my doubt has clouded all hope for you, though this world has failed you, I can assure you of one thing; you were knitted together in love and you will return home in love.
You can't be older than two or three, still waddling like a toddler unsure on your feet. My heart wants to melt, but instead it freezes over. I've seen extreme poverty, but this goes beyond that. I look around for your caretaker, knowing that this is the person using you for money. I spot him. He's across six lanes of traffic, meaning you made your way across that busy street to get to me. Anger courses through my veins. I hold my breath until you scamper away.
You belong to no one. Born into this world unwanted except by those born into the same circumstance. They need you for money. So you grew up like a homeless dog eating scraps out of trash bags on the side of the road. You never felt the kindness of a mother's breast, all covered up in her arms. You never tasted warm milk, the least we can give a hungry child. Your cries aren't for milk or comfort, they're for a rupee here or there in exchange for a bite of food to stop your tummy from burning. You're an animal trained for tricks, a business venture; that's how they see you.
Where do you sleep at night? I sometimes pass by and think I see you curled up under a tarp next to the stray dogs. Your chest rises and sinks as your tiny heart beats under a thin layer of bones, the skin still soft but stretched tight like a bed sheet. Night is your Caretaker, your only break from the desperation of daylight. You don't cry, you learned to self-soothe a long time ago.
Your underdeveloped brain may not fully comprehend what's happening, but when I looked into your eyes I saw a flicker of want. Hold me, rock me to sleep, and don't wake me up.
I was born into loving arms, planned, desired, held, and cherished. You were born into neglect and bitterness, forgotten, pushed away. You bring me pain, guilt and doubt when I look at you, that maybe God isn't really watching over you. This is why I can't think about you for long. This is why I'm not free in my "blessedness"; you haunt my dreams. All I can do for you is cry in hopes that it changes something. May God scoop you into His arms soon because I'm not ignorant enough to think your situation will improve.
If my doubt has clouded all hope for you, though this world has failed you, I can assure you of one thing; you were knitted together in love and you will return home in love.
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