by P.E. Quince
Sitting; on the pavement back against the wall, her small tattered hand, and five fingers, raised palm up, facing up towards.
Sitting there prayerful that, “GOD” will appear in that tattered, worn out hand…..
Stretched out; reaching, frozen in time, her arm, Seared and writhed by so long a life under the unforgiving sun. Frail, so fragile it seems a miracle that the breeze doesn’t break it. The multitude of visible vines, are the road map of her life. A life, which has been lived in the poverty, of this, our world.
Long, unkempt but clean, parted in the center, and pulled back its length hiding in her blouse.
The color, Grey, textured like straw, it frames her head, and her face, her face, once beautiful now, like old leather, dark and hollow, showing the strain, and her afflictions. She holds no expression at all.
Unmoving regarding only the frozen hand that is turned up to “GOD” stretched out from the frozen arm. Maybe today “GOD” will take her hand maybe today he will embrace her? How long has she been longing for Him to come?
Speaks, of her life, sixty, maybe seventy years old, maybe late forty’s Her husband dead or just vanished, eight or nine children, all departed to live there, lives. Leaving, her, to her strength and to her, almost nothingness. One of twelve or thirteen, growing up, a slave to her family, always a slave to her household, cooking and cleaning at age four or five, Learning under the heavy hand, of her, father, mother, husband, grandmother and children, Crying, crying in the hell that she was born in to.
Sex came, suddenly, all too early, not gently, not lovingly, a tender, secret age. Then, married, at thirteen or fifteen, walking, running shoeless, miles each and every day of her life, feet as tuff as her love of GOD, never a pair of shoes, her secret wish, to someday own a pair of shoes, maybe with a pair of shoes she would become somebody, maybe with a pair of shoes she would, just be seen? But eating, a bowl of rice twice a week is so much more vital. That it will stay only a dream, forever a dream. Praying, that if she like, Jesus lives a good life and suffers, like Jesus, that “GOD” may give her, shoes in paradise, so that she, may be seen by the angels.
Her blouse, Her skirt,
Handmade by her, like all of her clothing, and hand washed, hundreds of times. But, silently displaying, the stains, of years, of use. Old and out of date, just like her.
“GOD”, who, appears in her palm as I…..