I lost my sneakers yesterday. My feet are bare.
My brother’s jeans are ripped.
My father doesn’t feel well, but he puts his health on the side to pay the bills, keep the lights on.
My mother cooks what’s left in the cabinet.
The phone constantly rings, but no one has anything left to say.
The liars are on the news, saying the world is okay one moment, burning the next.
I have a splinter in my toe, and my neighbors are doing something strange. They’re setting up tables and chairs outside. They’re wearing masks but standing together, moving in and out of their houses, bringing out trays and trays of food, food that smelled so good. My stomach hurt from such thought.
They came to the door, knocking gently, gesturing to come outside.
Join them.
Take some food.
Stand with your neighbor.
Take a moment with them.
No politics.
It was like an early Thanksgiving. It didn’t matter who any of us are. We talked. We laughed. We felt like we are human.
I forgot I was not wearing any shoes.
Melissa Mendelson
Monroe