The wind blows, it’s misty, the cold has given way to mild, the cut is easy, makes sitting reasonable, ten in the morning, another seven hours to go. She’s got her pillow, a slice of duvet. She curls into a ball, begging bowl in front, she waits. Each donation is met with a quite thank you. She’s been doing this for over a year. In this town she’s welcome, They’d prefer to see her on her feet. Occasionally a stranger stops, a few words exchanged. Everyone is suspicious to her. Her mother before her, her sister, all begged for survival and their men. One day it will all stop. She’ll be in charge or dead. She didn’t choose the life, being born into it.
So many pass her, donations increase in these difficult times. In the evening, they will collect her, where she goes, no one actually understands. The next day she’ll be there. When in such circumstance, it’s hard getting used to other ways. it’s the legacy of fear endured passed on. Compounded by lack of education, decades of persecution, her outcome reminds you, depending what time of history you are in, you could have been her. The first martyrs, the Jews, Huguenots, cathars, 17th century irish, an African trying to escape the war zone, children in the refugee camps, Syria Iraq and elsewhere, there are many, food for thought I suppose, never forgotten, amen.