discrepancy

She was about 8. It was 10pm on a Monday. She was determined, walking a fast pace with an end goal. Blue sneakers...likely Keds...white socks that went halfway up her calf, a blue skirt and a red top with a collar. Small book bag slung over her shoulder. Is this a school outfit? It's too much to bear. Or is it?

I can't keep up. Maybe she's heading home. Then I notice her left arm swing up to wipe a tear. And then another. Something is wrong. She's in a hurry...out of anger and frustration...or perhaps running away from someone. She doesn't want to be here, in this life. Why her? Why was she chosen for this? She has the cadence of someone who is in her 40s.

As I approach her, I debate whether I will attempt a connection, but the truth of the matter is that I probably need that connection more than she. I want to know she will be ok. Why does anyone have to suffer?

I touch her shoulder and she swiftly swings her head in my direction. I struggle to find the words to ask her if she is ok. Is she? Immediately, the same hand that was wiping her tears pulls out a miniature bobble head turtle that she wants to sell. She's working.

If it wasn't bobble heads, it would be something else. I don't want to buy a bobble head, but I'd give her $100. She has had no childhood and her adult life won't be a life. Knowing that I'm walking back to luxury, to a place where one cocktail is $15 and we are doted upon, I can barely walk by her, refusing her bobble head figurine. 

She alone has forced me to hone in on what it is that has been bothering me today. It’s the discrepancy of what I have and what I feel I’m denying her.

Photo Credit: Jezael Melgoza