Just sayin’


by Michelle Warmath on Sunday, June 3, 2012 at 3:59pm ·

 Her leathery hands push the cart, knotted on the handlebar, sinews straining through the holes in the long-worn jumper, swollen ankles on swollen feet carrying her tottering skinny fever-racked body from one rubbish bin to the next… in this one, there is the food from last night, the shop threw it away… because of regulations it is not allowed to give perfectly good food to those who are starving, just because a date has passed by a few hours… and NOT ONLY THAT THEY SOAK IT IN CHLORINE BLEACH TO PREVENT THE HOMELESS AND HUNGRY FROM TAKING IT!!!

 The old woman sighs and, taking hold of the cart once more she gives a couple of painful shoves to get it rolling over the cobbles once again, in search of the sustenance she needs to carry her through the night, through the day… her flame flickering yet somehow, miraculously, burning strong because despite it all she loves life… she loves watching the children in the park from her discreet begging corner where the police won’t find her to chase her away … she loves hearing the sound of the wind in the trees, if that wind is not cold… she is human, she is you, me, us, what we could become one day, there but for the grace of… go I…

This is in France… 

In a rotting and mouldy and leaky clapboard house in a dusty forgotten land where nothing is easily available, where everything is costly, a single mom tries to leave the bottle unopened. She knows her five children need her; her man is dead, she is jobless, the funds so meagerly provided by the welfare system do not suffice to pay for rent, food, water, medicine… Her children’s pinched faces and tired tearful eyes and ragged clothes accuse her of her failure to provide… no one wants her, she has none to call to… the authorities are telling her the children must go to foster homes…

Her face hardens with the decision she thinks she must take, and standing quickly, she walks over to the drawer, takes out the revolver and some bullets, tremblingly but determinedly pencils a scrawled heartbroken note… 

“I’m sorry.”

The crows outside burst into startled, cawing flight as a single shot cracks open the silence of the dawn… 

She was human, she was you, she was me, she was us… what we might become one day… there but for the grace of… go I…

This is in the USA…

In the cold of a mountain wind, a father walks the last few yards to the beautifully painted door of the building. Looking down at the little boy with the rosy cheeks, he smiles, but his father’s heart is swimming in unashamed tears. He must leave this boy to those inside who will care for him; there is no money to take care of this youngest, his only son… so bright, at four, already singing and understanding words in books, perhaps he can be a teacher. He will live this way, at least he will live, and grow and become someone. The father’s poor, unsteady farm laborer’s job cannot offer this to his baby boy, his heart and his joy… the mother is ill, the sisters must work, there is no one at home to take care of the child…

The door opens quietly and a man’s face, filled with light and hope, appears… This man bows the father in, and the little boy toddles confidently alongside… the arrangements are made. The child will be cared for, the father promises to come visit him – empty promise, perhaps, since he does not know when, if ever, he will be able to do that… so many other priorities. Survival of the others is the first…

The kind man in the red robes takes the boy’s hand. “Come… I will be your father now…”

Bewilderment floods the chubby cheeks whose rosy glow drains away as if sucked out by some malignant spectre… The father hurries out the gate. He does not dare look back for fear his heart will shatter and he will die. The man in the red robes picks up  the boy to comfort him, praying with all his might to Buddah to provide for yet another mouth to feed…

As the father hurries down the path, the cold mountain air shivers with the little boy’s wailing …

Father! Father! FaAAAtherrrrr!

They are human. They are you, they are me… they are us…. what we might become one day… there but for the grace of … go I.

This is somewhere in Asia…

PLEASE WON’T YOU HELP US TO BE ABLE TO HELP PEOPLE LIKE THESE? SHARE? MAYBE GIVE WHAT YOU CAN? EVERY TINY BIT HELPS…

… just sayin’… 

THANK YOU. THANK YOU. 

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Freddy-Little-Massi-Calling-Corp-a-501c-Non-Profit-Organization/253613531387986

http://freddyandlittlemassicallingcorp.org

PAYPAL donations:  freddyandlittlemassicallingcorp@yahoo.com


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