Children, swept off of hope’s doorstep into the bowels of the earth.
Wearing sweaters worn only at Christmas by us when we were babies, shirts touched by Grandmothers who knit or purchased them for such a special occasion and for children who aren’t these children.
Love and the scent of cinnamon and sweetness settled on the sweaters in places like home, now covered by smoke from the burning refuse in the ditches is any remnant of such a foreign feast, never tasted or even conceived in the minds of these little ones:
The bounty of the West.
Holes are torn in fabrics by the claws of the concept of survival of the fittest.
Evidence of the tooth and nail fight for a meal or a pittance of attention is found on pretty dresses.
The unavoidable dirt and the tears from soccer disputes, as well as angry blows to shoulder blades, something like sibling rivalry, replace the gravy stains from dinner and lipstick marks from overbearing, affectionate Aunties.
What they’d give to have overbearing, affectionate Aunties.
What they’d give to feel some second-hand love.
Some hand-me-down nurture.
If only Mom could weave some of her instincts into the clothes before she packed them into trash bags to send to the poor.
If only they were more than the clothes on their backs.
Surely they’d fight to the death for them if these shirts contained stronger things than polyester and cotton,
Things like hope,
Things like future and safety.
And they’ll fight to the death anyways.
Because they are scholars of the fight.
Small professors of the struggle.
And I will learn and get angry in secret places and cry in bathroom stalls because I know nothing of their lack & I am selfish.
I wore that sweater until I grew out of it from the affluence that put flesh on my bones in pleasant places.
Affluence, maybe just a sculptor with too much clay.
Charity, maybe something like a first kiss when you were twelve and didn’t really know what you were doing.
Between rich and poor.
And no one’s figured it out yet.
We’re dancing a messy waltz, trying to help the too little with the too much.
And Jesus loves you, and here’s a pair of new shoes, and I’ll be back after I eat the lunch that you won’t have, behind my gate & armed guards who won’t keep you safe, the little one who needs safekeeping…
Wear those shoes with your Christmas sweater, to school and to war.
And I’ll wait here forever, trying to figure out how to make things better for you.
I’ll wait for the day you won’t have to choose either pants or shirt.
Stealing or begging.
Health or disease.
Life or death.
