Saturday, May 17, 2014

A moment

I grinned at the boy who grinned back.  He turned to face me and I saw a large, white mass growing, and oozing out of the side of his head.
I looked away.

A mother grabbed my skirt and gave me her daughter.  The back of the little girl's head was necrotic and looked like it had been eaten away.  There were flies in it.
All I could say was, "I'm sorry.  I'm not a doctor."

Holiness to me are moments that blind me to the past and future, granting me complete presence.
Mountains do this to me.
Love does this to me.
And so do moments like these.

I am not thinking, only seeing.  A feeling rising up from the bottom of my stomach and settling in my throat. I smell of sick bodies 5 people thick all around me.

I go in to see the doctor and explain this new tool I developed to help better track malaria testing.

But the boy is still outside.

But the girl is still waiting.

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