First world

She doesn't speak my tongue. Perhaps a few words. Maybe the broken phrase 'sorry no english'. She smiles at me while I stare back at her. The bag of cans rustling at her side clues me in. She wants the beer can I'm drinking from. Not for the beer. The can.

She looks to be 50. I'm only guessing as asians age gracefully so I'm adding at least ten to how she looks. Her clothing bright mismatched clashing attire tells me fashion is her last concern. Her eyes are faded worn brown. Her smile easy. Like the same ease you can get from ignorance. She must have been heartbreaker in her day.

She takes the can from me with a bigger smile and a small bow. My can joins the collection rustling behind her. Her fortune. Her food. Her lively hood.

I wonder about this woman. She seems out of place. In a country she could never adapt to. Too old or too worn into her way and culture. Yet she lives. Exists. Carves out her own life. Day in, day out. Is she happy? Sad? Forlorn? Exhausted? How did this life of hers come to be?

She finds a way. She knows that the next meal will not be given. That her landlord is not of a tender heart. And so she travels collecting cans.

She breaks my heart. My soul tears to know that she must do this to survive because surely she doesn't do this out of joy. But. She inspires. So trivial are my gripes now. It's hard to say "I can't" when I know what people are doing for their daily bread.

I am a first world child. Born expecting water from a tap and food to arrive at my door when I call. I feel I appreciate what I have but everyday I meet people like her. And I find I'm wrong.

Wish her happiness health and home,
ShadowlessTomorrow