11.13.2018

other's struggles

Back at the grocer. We go nearly every day. Curious kids with their indifferent mothers idly ogle my son. Heedless of my seeing. Clueless of his blindness. Ignorant of his seizing. Unwittingly oblivious to the missing white matter in his brain. Elderly, disabled and homeless folks display their keen insight and compassion. My son hugs them. They make my day a better one.

Between cellophane-bagged grapes and neatly stacked waxed apples, we meet a woman. She says her name is Jane. She's drawn to my son. Calvin knits his fingers madly. Gawks at suspended fluorescents. She's unfazed. He can hear their buzzing. Still, her greeting seems to fall on deaf ears. I tell her he cannot speak. I tell her he seems due for a seizure. Her apple blossom smile withers.

She and I stand and chat. I keep my son in hand so he won't wander. She tells me of her love of kids and of two ectopic pregnancies. No babies of her own to cuddle, no sons or daughters to raise. Instead, she spent time in children's hospitals giving love and gifts to sick ones. Knowing the struggles kids like mine and their families face, people's petty complaints bother her. I feel her pain.

Aside the grocer's bakery, I envision raging fires scorching acres of my beloved golden state. See burned-out cars abandoned roadside, bleeding aluminum. Regal oaks still stand, though now as blackened skeletons. Charred bodies wrapped in cobalt tarps. Entire neighborhoods, homes, lives, reduced to charcoal, cinder and smoke. I consider immigrants working in the fields not far away. Tireless. Sweating. Picking lettuce, apples, grapes. Backs breaking for little pay so the rest of us can buy fruit and vegetables cheaply. I tell Jane there's no comparing when it comes to others' strife and struggle. Everyone has their burdens others can't always see. People with hidden scars and weights sometimes complain. It's okay.

I muse on humans. We are the same the world over. Love our children. Do what it takes. Hope for better futures. Flee dangers. Seek out food, shelter, water, safety, equality. Desperate and fearful, we migrate for our loved ones' sake. Americans would be no different if faced with famine, war, despots, gangs, murder, rape. Like from burning buildings, we'd escape. Complacency and dispassion lead some to pass judgement. Others follow fearmongers blindly and willingly into thoughts and acts of hate.

I think of prayerful people, certain that their god will save them. So sure of answers to their pleas. Staid in their faithfulness. Good and loving folks whom nature haphazardly and grievously incinerates. Fires can scale the walls that even prayful people make. In god's name, pious war over territory on our precious Earth that has birthed us all. Whose land is whose anyway? If there is a god—I think to myself between plastic-wrapped fish and meat—there is one for all of us.

My child and I stand in line and wait to pay. He licks the glass beverage case. I wipe and kiss his drooly chin. Pat his head. Run my fingers through his hair. The woman in the other lane glares then averts her gaze. The man behind me smiles and winks, says goodbye and waves. My kid is seemingly oblivious. I'm sure he hears everything. Perhaps he can sense the burning embers others feel, their need to douse or hide their pain.

Camp fire, John Locher, AP

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