Day 934

An old man
sits outside his tent
on a wooden box
in the first warm sunlight
of the day.  He’s alone.
The neighbor
who makes sure he eats
has brought him
some bread and an orange
for breakfast.  He sits.
He barely speaks.
He watches some kids
kicking a ball between tents,
watches a small girl
dig in the mud with a long spoon.
Is he remembering
his granddaughter now?
The girl he used to call
soul of my soul?  the child
who would sing to him
in her high sweet voice,
who brought him
bread and coffee
(her mother made)
in the mornings;
who, in the afternoons,
told him stories from school.
If he closes his eyes
he can almost feel her hand
in his, hear the words
she would say to him
before closing her eyes.
Before he would turn off
the light, stand and watch
as she fell asleep. Soul
of my soul.  Small
and vulnerable and alive.