I look into my little box;
there it sits, nestled on a little white paper and triangle tray,
my first carrot cake of the season.
I love it’s nutty goodness, crunchy walnuts, slivers of
orange carrots, plump juicy raisins.
I dig in with my white plastic fork.
“I just got back from Africa,” he says from the podium.
“They don’t have enough food or water at the refugee camp.
They come to me begging for help and I can’t help them.
I am helpless.”
“The young men come with applications for universities. They
need the fees to get in. If I had the money, it would have to go
to feed the children. There is nothing I can do.”
I munch on my cake. It’s awfully good. I dip into the creamy white
frosting. Umm, made with creme cheese. My favorite.
“Next month,” he tells us, “I go on a mission to South Sudan. They are
having a civil war and 50,000 have died. They tell me they don’t kill priests.”
“Oh, look,” I think to myself, “a little tiny carrot on top of the frosting.
Isn’t that cute?” I hold the little brown box with one hand. It’s one of those
collapsible ones that folds out into a box with handles. Handy, huh?
He reaches out to me in the crowd. He is very tan which
means he has been sleeping outside all summer. He looks to be
about twenty and very f—–up.
“It’s drugs or alcohol or both,” I think to myself. I give him the universal symbol for no in Korean, crossed forearms. He veers off.
“I hope he gets the help he needs somewhere,” I think.
“Wow, look, a little more cake on the bottom.
Let me get that.”
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