survival

 My phone was stolen. Right out of my pocket. People are the same everywhere- there is a struggle of failure and triumph, most often resulting in the quest for survival. We all have our own definition of what it means to survive. In that quest our means manifest in different ways. My survival is different than yours. Who's to say which ways are correct?

I walk along a busy street, the sun beats hot, bodies weave between each other, produce overflows from carts and carriers, busses crammed to overflowing blare their horns. There in the middle of my path lies a young girl and an even younger child. They lay together, eyes closed in the middle of the concrete, trash covered street. The child folded closely into the bends of her mothers body. They appear to be asleep. I stand close to them for a moment, wanting to reach out and do something. I shake her shoulders, pat her back. There is no movement, no response. I do this over and over and over, trying to wake her. Her body heavy and still under my hands. I feel her chest and neck for a heartbeat, which I find, as my own heartbeat quickens. My worry rises, I find only fear in this situation I don’t know how to handle. I look around for a face from whom I can seek assistance. One man laughs at my attempts, he keeps walking. My interest in the woman and child begins to draw a crowd. People stop and stare. Pointing at me, pointing at “them”. One woman comes to me, offering support in words I do not understand. She attempts to shake the young girl awake, tapping her cheeks. Then she looks at me, and laughs shrugging her shoulders, “lala” she says- sleeping. She pats my back and walks away. I stand there in the busy streets surrounded by hundreds of faces feeling completely alone. But not as alone as this woman and child. I wonder how these people survive. I want to lay down with them and wait for her to come awake. I don’t know what to do. The world continues around us, each on their own quest for survival. Then, like everyone else, I turn and walk away, to a more comfortable place- my own survival. My heart beating in my chest. What the fuck was I thinking?

Hours later, I sit in the that same hot sun and I can’t get the image of their figure out of my mind, mother and child. I wonder their story – trial and treasure, does treasure exist? What is their survival? I question my dedication, my commitment, my integrity, my tenacity, my heart. I question what I am made of and what it will require to live a life that gives more than it takes. A life that gives love in a way that won’t pass by them again.