I like taking walks.
I like taking walks for several reasons. Primarily, it gives me time to stare pensively into open air while listening to enjoyable selections from Jon Foreman and The Michael Gungor Band. Secondarily, it gives my legs something to do while I think. I really like thinking. I could think all day long, so it’s good for my body to be occupied during this time. I take two, three, sometimes four walks a day, at any point when I have 30 minutes or so to myself. I also enjoy running, but I’ve found that my thoughts while running mostly center around how I wish I wasn’t running.
So I was out for a walk. Jon was singing a sweet song about running from emotional reality and I was tuned out of the world.
Flashbacks.
I see white sidewalks. I remember red dirt roads.
Flashbacks.
I see a man mowing his lawn. I remember slashing the compound by hand.
Flashbacks.
I see a little girl riding a tricycle. I remember Ema kicking a soccer ball made from rubber bands around plastic bags.
“What’s your name?”
She looks up at me. I snap back to current reality. I look around.
“My name’s Jessica. What’s your name?”
“It’s Madison. I’m four.”
Am I allowed to talk to children in America? You know, people here are pretty sensitive about who their children talk to on street corners. I remember my Sesame Street. But before I could really discern the proper course of action, she strikes up conversation.
“Where do you live Jessica? You know, I live over in that house with the white truck in front. It’s not my house. My grandma lives there. My daddy drops me off here sometimes. My grandpa isn’t doing too good. He had to go to the hop-si-tal because he’s sick. Do you know my grandma? She’s nice.”
Frankly at this point I don’t know which question to answer. Or to ask for that matter. Still partially consumed with feeling weird about holding a conversation with an unchaperoned minor, I walk ahead, as Madison rides her tricycle next to me on the sidewalk.
“Do you wanna come over and play? I don’t know many friends here.”
“Sweetie, I wish I could, but I’m on my way home now. Maybe I’ll see you next time I go for a walk. I’m out here a lot, and I walk by your grandma’s house every time. If I see you again, I’ll make sure to stop and say hi.”
“I’m not here very much. Because this isn’t my house, it’s my grandma’s house. I go to my dad’s on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and my mom’s on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. So I don’t have many friends to play with.”
Here she is. Her name is Madison. She’s wearing a pink dress with a white daisy print. Her shoes are shiny and new. Her tricycle is in perfect condition. Her hair is cut evenly and her eyes are bright.
She is an American orphan.
Not because she doesn’t have parents. Not because her parents don’t love her. But because she has no home. Home. Not three houses, a home. Where does she belong? To whom does she belong?
As I walked away from her, I sighed. I thought of all the orphans and street kids I met over the last 6 months.
I’m sorry. And I don’t know what else to say.
