The Perfect Gift.

Sometimes it IS the thought that counts.

The Perfect Gift

Beneath the rusted arch of steel and mortar,
Where river fog clings close and cold as bone,
Sari Harris breathes, though no one sees her do.
The world has passed her, ignoring that which they forget.

Twenty winters scraped across her skin,
Her husband's hand, her daughter's laughing face,
Erased by speed, by dark, by careless drunk.
Now she is a shadow, wrapped in shopping bags.
Her hair was a nest of twigs and grease,
One eye a cloud, the other wide with dread.
Teeth gone. Voice cracked. A cough that shakes the ground.


The town rolls by--on bikes, in minivans,
They glance, they look away--a muttered sigh.
"There she is again." Not "There she was."

But on the Eve of Giving--snowfall light,
A girl, no older than the child once lost,
Stopped at the bridge and counted and found a Soul,
Bought gloves, soup, and scarves from her heart.
She climbed the bank. She knelt. She broke the curse.

"Ma'am?" she whispered, crouching in the muck.
"I--I got you something."
A paper bag. Inside: a scarf, hand-knit,
Soft blue as sky, with tassels frayed and blue.
"A gift," the girl said. "For you. It's not much, but...
I thought you'd like it. It's what Mom would knit."

Sari froze. Her breath came sharp and strange.
No one had given since she began her plight.
She reached--a claw of dirt and broken nails--
And touched the wool. And trembled.
Tears, thick as the river's flow,
Cut canyons through the grime on cheeks.

The girl just smiled. "Merry Christmas, ma'am."
Then rose and left the way she came.
A light retreating, but not forgotten,
Something in the dark had been found.

Not warmth of fire. Not food. Not change.
But seen. No longer quite alone.

For twenty years, the world had turned its back.
One act of kindness cracked the broken life.

Line Count: Thirty-nine