Too Late

I talked excited about my day. About how brilliant Gita was. About how she made me smile, about how I couldn't help but follow her laugh, and as she laughs for most of the day I too laugh for most of the day. Really she gives me so much energy. I spoke about how we danced and shouted la la la tra tra la da da da daaaaaaaaa. About how on the count of One Two Three! I would run and Gita would lift her second hand to join her first and manage to trail behind me, smiling but scared and then laugh with relief and enjoyment. Most days I leave Shisa Bhavan so refreshed. As I was talking I was eating chocolate cake with hot fudge sauce and it was delicious. The sweet warm taste added a new form of energy to my body. I took tiny slices with the edge of a tea spoon trying to make it last as long as logically possible. Eventually I stopped to speak and I asked my friend how his day was. Eventually my friend stop saying it was find and eventually he spoke to me about how his day really was. Eventually I stopped moving my tea spoon, as I lost all sense of taste.

Eventually the image will fade of a young destitute man being kicked aside by passers by. The image of a young man who is in the way. A young man who is in the way because he cannot move. He cannot move because he lays dead, because he lays alone, with nothing but a shroud covering him. A shroud bought by my desperate friend, desperate to give him something too late. Desperate to share a love for humanity, a love for life, a love that the image of the young dead kicked destitute man seems never to have known.