Image courtesy of Victor Habbick / Freedigitalphotos.net
The day had been colder than usual when he arrived on my doorstep. I was sitting in the living room reading Hemingway while drinking tea and could see him from out the front window. His body was so lengthy that it appeared misshapen. His dark grey sweatshirt hung loosely on his frame; the hood pulled up and tied closely to his head. His kept his head down as he wrung my doorbell, by which I was already walking to the door to receive him, albeit skeptically. I hadn't seen him around the neighborhood; there wasn't a kid as skinny as him on this block of two-car-garage houses. I thought he could be some beggar child, a waif straight from a Charles Dickens novel. I opened the door, against my better judgement, and the child lifted his head to greet me.
My ancestors built
In full days of scorching heat,
Through long drafty nights.
When they rested –
They were seldom
Afforded the luxury
Of rest from white industry’s yoke –
Rested on Africa.
Words = Life
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