The Lady, she is laughing.
Pointing to and reading the signs.
I see her body startle.
Surprised as the taxi-walla swerves.
He misses a family of five.
Five on a moped.
Not being a discerning band,
We approach when the traffic halts.
A cow is in the road.
I don’t wear shoes.
They are overrated, I think,
As I hear a squish that emerges between my toes.
I shift the screaming prop.
Her dirty fingers stretch like tar,
Over the lip of the taxi window.
Breaking through the imaginary barrier,
Between us and the Lady.
There is shouting.
The driver flails his arms,
As if shooing flies.
But the Lady? The One with the foreign clothes?
She looks me in the eye.
Uncharacteristically, she gets out of the car.
No foreigner ever emerges.
Maybe a rupee drops to the ground.
Presuming the baby is mine,
The Lady takes it.
And grabs my hand.
Experienced in this maneuver.
It is as if she knows I am a child.
We walk to an open park.
She is focused on the fountain.
A man wishes to clean her ears.
She leads me to the quiet, moving water.
I take a bath. It stirs a distant memory.
My clothes dry quickly due to their thin construction.
She leads me to a forbidden fence.
The gate hastily opens.
We stand at a counter.
The Lady runs her fingers through my hair
As she talks to another woman
In fabric like mine.
I am one of thousands.
And she took notice of me.
She noticed the hairs on my head.
— Jodi McKenna
Please consider sponsoring a Compassion Child before the month is over. Take a child by the hand, and let them know that God knows the number of hairs on their head.
Head on over to the Compassion Website today.