A Mindful Journey

The first time I saw…

I had seen children cry before, but not like this.

Wailing loudly, he looks empty, as if he weren't crying at all. Full of soot the tears clear a few streaks down his face exposing his bronzed skin.

The cries are almost lost in the excitement; feet running, balloons popping, the soft jingle of the merry-go-round. Families desperately trying to ignore what’s in front of them.

He drags his shoes across the concrete, far too big for him and already well-worn. He begs for help, he just wants to find her.

I feel the sun stinging my skin, not a cloud in the sky to shield it. I am wearing my favourite dress, the one with the bright flowers. The sad boy mustn't be wearing his favourite clothes today, they don’t look as nice as mine. Maybe he ripped them playing his boyish games.

The bawling is confusing me. My young mind is trying to piece it together, trying to figure out how the whole crowd, with all their joy and laughter, can drown out a terrified, lonely boy. He just wants someone to help him find his mother.

Women clutch their bags and men slot hands into their pockets. He tugs urgently at their clothing.

He catches my stare, I can’t help staring. I can’t look away. Nervously I stand, I hope he doesn't come to me. I don’t know what to do. He shuffles along in his over-sized shoes, he doesn't seem interested in me. I am as non-existent to him as he is to everyone else.

Angry that no one wants to help, worried about what might happen to him, I feel helpless.

“Keep moving, keep moving”, everyone scrambles along, relieved they have received a momentary distraction. The line is getting shorter.

The boy is exhausted, his wailing softens. The expression is replaced with the deep look of disappointment as he realises today is not his lucky day.

Head down, he turns away, immediately absorbed into the herd of people never to be seen again.

Our day goes on. I’ll still get to ride the rollercoaster and I’ll still get my ice cream. It will still drip all over the flowers on my dress, like it always does, and we’ll still go home to a warm house and home-cooked meal.

But for you, dear gypsy child, for you this is just another day in a monotonous cycle of many. For tomorrow you will still be exploited, faced with the job no young boy should have. You will still fear your journey home, empty-handed, to the small shack you call home.