It was late Saturday night at McDonalds
and most people were happily drunk or sadly sober and everyone stuck in that moment either were too busy laughing or deliberately ignoring her: the misfortunes of decades had weighed her spine, made it bent and folded. It found support on an elderly walker-- she had embedded plastic flowers and balloons on it; “1 dollar each” she would tell me latter. Her voice was sorrowed yet it carried a tender undertone as she said under the tip top hijab: “I’m so hungry”; “what’s your poison?” I asked. As she replied my first impulse was to think of the yellow baby chicks dying almost instantly, their shapes tossed into a very much efficient machine to transform them into cheap meat. However, just as naturally, spring blossomed out of my chest-lodge when I bought the resulting clumps for a few bucks and passed them to that 68 years old Muslim lady who lived in a shelter and who saved my night by giving me a hug and saying “I love you” twice.
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