I am eleven. My
grandmother and I are in Paris. We’ve just been to a museum or something. We’re
walking down the sidewalk and I see this man. He’s Indian. He’s sitting on a
straw mat wearing all white, including his turban. His legs are withered. They
sit uselessly underneath him as he begs for money. He’s dirty and missing a few
teeth. He calls out to the people in Indian accented French as they pass by. I’ve
never seen anyone like him before in my whole life. I stare as we walk by. That
night I cry myself to sleep thinking about him.
I am nineteen.
Jessica and I are in Manzini. We’ve just been to the mall for lunch. We’re
walking out and I see this boy. He’s Swazi. He’s crawling down the stairs. His
right foot is twisted in the wrong direction and his other one isn’t fully
formed. His spine is curved so he can’t even walk upright. He wears shoes on
his hands and one on his left knee. His clothes are torn and he avoids looking
at the people who have to walk around him as he struggles down the stairs. I’ve
seen too many people like him before. I look away as we walk by. By that night
I’ve forgotten all about him.
Oh God, take
this heart of stone and replace it with one of flesh.
