The girl standing in front of me is for sale.
There's about two feet and at least one child between she and I, but trust me, she's for sale. Her short, black skirt, the bruises, the lack of underwear, and that vacant, pain-filled look in her eyes tell me her life's story.
She hungry, like a small animal struggling to survive.
She clutches the small male child close, as if he is her only connection to humanity. She looks at her feet (wrapped shiny black stiletto heels) and waits while the checker rings up her purchases — a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and a small carton of eggs.
The checker tells her she's a dollar and fourteen cents short. I watch her fumble through her purse, searching for stray change, or a wayward dollar bill, to cover her deficit.
She fails.
The little boy whines and shuffles and tugs on her arm. I can tell he's hungry, too. I've seen that same look — briefly — on my own children's faces right before we all sit down for dinner.
Today, this boy's face tells me he's missed far too many meals; like his mother, he seems distant and hopeless.
The woman reaches for the bread just as I lay two dollars on the dirty black conveyor belt at the check-stand. The checker takes the money, the turns toward her. "Ma'am, your covered," he says. He points a large finger at me. "He's got you."
She looks at me; her large brown eyes, searching. I smile and tell her "it's no big deal." I tell her my kids eat tons of bread and drink gallons of milk and there have been a million times that I've been a buck or two short at the grocery store, too.
For a brief second she's not sure what to think. I know she's used to having men give her cash, but usually they want something in return.
Not this time.
I smile again, and, for the second time, say "it's no big deal."
This time, she smiles back. She mouths the words "thank you" and then bends down and picks up her child. She seems a little more open now, so I take advantage of the opportunity. "That's a very handsome little boy you have there," I tell her. "You should be proud."
"He's my little man," she says quietly. She pauses, looks down, then looks a me again. "Thank you so much. My budget is kinda' tight this month."
"Trust me," I said. "I've been there."
We chat about nothing for a few more moments. Then she and her little boy, walk out of the store and climb into a beat up, rust-covered Mustang. I hear the engine rumble, then watch them drive off into the August night.
For a few seconds I stood next to my car and gazed up at the sky. "The poor will always be with us..." Christ told his disciples.
That night, there, at the grocery store, it was obvious he spoke the truth.
There's about two feet and at least one child between she and I, but trust me, she's for sale. Her short, black skirt, the bruises, the lack of underwear, and that vacant, pain-filled look in her eyes tell me her life's story.
She hungry, like a small animal struggling to survive.
She clutches the small male child close, as if he is her only connection to humanity. She looks at her feet (wrapped shiny black stiletto heels) and waits while the checker rings up her purchases — a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and a small carton of eggs.
The checker tells her she's a dollar and fourteen cents short. I watch her fumble through her purse, searching for stray change, or a wayward dollar bill, to cover her deficit.
She fails.
The little boy whines and shuffles and tugs on her arm. I can tell he's hungry, too. I've seen that same look — briefly — on my own children's faces right before we all sit down for dinner.
Today, this boy's face tells me he's missed far too many meals; like his mother, he seems distant and hopeless.
The woman reaches for the bread just as I lay two dollars on the dirty black conveyor belt at the check-stand. The checker takes the money, the turns toward her. "Ma'am, your covered," he says. He points a large finger at me. "He's got you."
She looks at me; her large brown eyes, searching. I smile and tell her "it's no big deal." I tell her my kids eat tons of bread and drink gallons of milk and there have been a million times that I've been a buck or two short at the grocery store, too.
For a brief second she's not sure what to think. I know she's used to having men give her cash, but usually they want something in return.
Not this time.
I smile again, and, for the second time, say "it's no big deal."
This time, she smiles back. She mouths the words "thank you" and then bends down and picks up her child. She seems a little more open now, so I take advantage of the opportunity. "That's a very handsome little boy you have there," I tell her. "You should be proud."
"He's my little man," she says quietly. She pauses, looks down, then looks a me again. "Thank you so much. My budget is kinda' tight this month."
"Trust me," I said. "I've been there."
We chat about nothing for a few more moments. Then she and her little boy, walk out of the store and climb into a beat up, rust-covered Mustang. I hear the engine rumble, then watch them drive off into the August night.
For a few seconds I stood next to my car and gazed up at the sky. "The poor will always be with us..." Christ told his disciples.
That night, there, at the grocery store, it was obvious he spoke the truth.
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