“Do you have any change there ma’am? We’re hungry, please?”

Been homeless for about 6 years now.
Wandering around barefooted has been our breakfast, lunch and dinner plus the curses people throw on us as side dish. “Go get a job and stop bumming around you worthless son-of-a-b*tch!” I sting. My smell resembled to that of a dead rat. This shirt used to be red, and now it’s grease-black. If this was the new fashion statement, I’m probably off working on a descent job right now.

My kids, 6 and 8 years of age, they kept on asking me “why”? All I could answer was a terrified stare for their future. In these streets, you’ll never know how many nights you’ll get out alive. We’ve seen corpses. Stabbed. Throats slit. Dead bodies with a needle stiff on their forearms. Things children should not be seeing. At first, it'll scare the hell out of you. Then it becomes a part of your everyday. Like midnight snack on a normal person. You just get immune by it. Numb by it.

I can’t just cry, though. I am my kids’ home now. I’m all they’ve got. And if I breakdown, their only shelter collapses. The house is not going to get burned down again. Never again.
It'll stay resilient.
Even if it means lying to them. And to myself.

“Gina? Wake up, baby. You’ve been sleeping for four days now. It’s time to get up dear."
"Gina?"
...

"okay then. one more day..."



art: Morteza Katouzian (1984)
words: mary ann calingo