Your heart would break. Mine did.
He could not have been more than seven. Very thin. Tattered red t-shirt. Pants that were worn-torn, rather than cut off. Bare feet.
With tears streaming down his smudged face.
He held out his left hand and looked up at me pleading with pooling brown eyes.
But I have started in the middle of my story.
Monday afternoon I took a quick drive over to Cihuatlán, the equivalent of the county seat, to buy a few items from our only local "big box" store. I have not been there since I witnessed the Canadian woman's near-loss of her wallet.
I will not bother you with the details, but on the way there I saw an animal road death that heightened my sensitivity for life.
My shopping visit was short. I bought my few groceries, and loaded them in the car. As I placed the shopping cart in the return area, I noticed the boy sitting on the grass strip immediately in front of my truck.
When I first saw him, he was looking straight ahead. The moment he caught my movement in his peripheral vision, his head swiveled up to look at me. His palm came out.
I wish I could say compassion was my first reaction. It wasn't. Perhaps, I have become just a bit cynical about children in that parking lot.
Besides the history, there was something just too stylized about the kid. He looked as if he had just missed his bus for the Mexican road show of Les Misérables. The clothes looked like a costume. The smudge on the cheek the size of adult fingers.
And that look of supplication. As if he were awaiting for the priest to provide him with the host.
But the memory of that animal death on the road overcame all of those doubts. I reached in my pocket to give him a peso note. He leaned forward as his tears began to flow.
Then I saw it. The reason he was holding out only his left hand was simple. He held a screwdriver in his other hand. And my front license plate was dangling by only one screw.
He immediately tracked my gaze, and was on his feet in one bound on his way across the parking lot. He fired a rather exotic name at me that I had to look up when I came home. I am not going to repeat it here.
I went into the store, but I could find no one in charge because the store was extremely busy -- and I was certain I was going to lose my plate if I did not get back to my truck.
As I drove away, I saw him sitting in front of another truck on the grassy parking strip.
A reader provided contact information for the local child protection services. I am going to call. There has to be some Fagin-ish adult behind this. Why would children steal license plates on their own?
When we encounter the Gavroches of this world face to face, our hearts still break -- even (perhaps, especially) when those little supplicating hands are committing crimes.
He could not have been more than seven. Very thin. Tattered red t-shirt. Pants that were worn-torn, rather than cut off. Bare feet.
With tears streaming down his smudged face.
He held out his left hand and looked up at me pleading with pooling brown eyes.
But I have started in the middle of my story.
Monday afternoon I took a quick drive over to Cihuatlán, the equivalent of the county seat, to buy a few items from our only local "big box" store. I have not been there since I witnessed the Canadian woman's near-loss of her wallet.
I will not bother you with the details, but on the way there I saw an animal road death that heightened my sensitivity for life.
My shopping visit was short. I bought my few groceries, and loaded them in the car. As I placed the shopping cart in the return area, I noticed the boy sitting on the grass strip immediately in front of my truck.
When I first saw him, he was looking straight ahead. The moment he caught my movement in his peripheral vision, his head swiveled up to look at me. His palm came out.
I wish I could say compassion was my first reaction. It wasn't. Perhaps, I have become just a bit cynical about children in that parking lot.
Besides the history, there was something just too stylized about the kid. He looked as if he had just missed his bus for the Mexican road show of Les Misérables. The clothes looked like a costume. The smudge on the cheek the size of adult fingers.
And that look of supplication. As if he were awaiting for the priest to provide him with the host.
But the memory of that animal death on the road overcame all of those doubts. I reached in my pocket to give him a peso note. He leaned forward as his tears began to flow.
Then I saw it. The reason he was holding out only his left hand was simple. He held a screwdriver in his other hand. And my front license plate was dangling by only one screw.
He immediately tracked my gaze, and was on his feet in one bound on his way across the parking lot. He fired a rather exotic name at me that I had to look up when I came home. I am not going to repeat it here.
I went into the store, but I could find no one in charge because the store was extremely busy -- and I was certain I was going to lose my plate if I did not get back to my truck.
As I drove away, I saw him sitting in front of another truck on the grassy parking strip.
A reader provided contact information for the local child protection services. I am going to call. There has to be some Fagin-ish adult behind this. Why would children steal license plates on their own?
When we encounter the Gavroches of this world face to face, our hearts still break -- even (perhaps, especially) when those little supplicating hands are committing crimes.
