A woman with short, curly hair buckles under the heat of the open air market
and her daughter clutches her arm, screams help me, but it's in Italian
and I don't know what I can do. Part of me doesn't think she's talking to me,
as I scurry over and the black man from another tent pushes me out of the way,
rescuing us both. Another woman nearby grabs a wicker chair
and begins to make her way through the crowd, but the old woman is flat
on the ground and has no use for the chair. Looking at us, she places the chair down,
says something I can't decipher and for the first time in five weeks,
I feel tears well in the corners of my eyes. I have done nothing with my life.
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