Threadbare
“This, to me, represents love…” The letter was written to explain why
they had to divorce. She shook her head in irritation. Her
soon-to-be-ex-husband had no concept of love and staying strong through
the hard times. She continued lost in thought when she almost tripped
over the child curled up against the wall in the street.
Streaks of
dirt only highlighted the deeper dirt that covered the child. His
clothing was threadbare, the patches in the knees worn through. He
didn’t meet her eyes. She saw many passed him by giving him no notice.
But this was a child. All children deserved notice.
Kneeling down,
she asked him, “Where are your parents?” He tilted his head as if
uncertain what she said. He tugged at his ear and then she realized he
was using a rudimentary sign language. She only drove into town to
straighten out some legal matters. “Legal matters”…such a cold way to
refer to the dissolution of a marriage. Still, she could not ignore
this child. Decision made, she held out her hand.
The boy studied
the hand with its neatly painted nails. He could not recall a clean
hand offered his way. People on the streets would drag him along,
making sure he made it to a shelter to get something to eat…most of the
time. Sometimes, though, he hid amongst the trash, disappearing. She
shook her hand with a little impatience. He saw her mouth move, knowing
she was trying to tell him something. Finally, he slowly took her
hand.
She hesitated at first before fully grasping the hand. She
could feel the greasy grasp slide over her fingers. She fought against
her instinct. She told herself, “It’s just dirt! It’s just dirt!” She
pushed back the desire to put a handkerchief between their hands.
Shaking away the physical discomfort, she continued walking down the
sidewalk. The attorney wouldn’t be far and he could advise her about
the child.
“Odd,” she thought. “My problem with dirt…with unclean
things is what pushed my husband and me apart. Even…getting personal
makes me physically ill. Yet, I am holding the hand of this dirty
child.” She looked over at him as he squirmed a little and caught him
scratching. “…this dirty, LICE RIDDEN child.” Reaching the entrance to
the attorney, she turned towards him.
“I know you can’t
understand me, but you need to trust me.” He stared at her
uncomprehendingly, sniffing. Then he took his hand and dragged it
across the offending nose. Fighting nausea, she shakily took that hand
back into hers as they climbed the steps. “I can do this…I can do
this…” she continued to chant as they opened the door.
“Hello, Mrs. Sanders. You’re a few minutes ear…” The receptionist cut her statement short. “Oh..oh…ummm…what’s this?”
“This is a who…and I’m not sure but we need to figure something out.”
The boy stared out the window as rain began to fall. At least, he
thought, I am dry for now.
Written in response to
Finish That Thought. The prompt: This, to me, represents love.
