Kathy Engel

Ashen face, wool hat bobbing, the young boy’s eyes dart to me, then up at the man pulling a rolling suitcase, whose hand he holds, then back at me. His legs move as if without gravity. The man asks: Do you know a church on this street that serves free food? I want to say I know. That the names of churches on an Avenue called Americas roll out of me. I want to tell you it is temporary, their condition: suitcase, darting eyes, seeking free food at 9 pm in a big city on a school night. I want to tell you I don’t for a moment wonder if that is really the boy’s father or uncle or legitimate caretaker — something in the handholding and eyes, having watched too many episodes of Law and Order. I want to tell you I take them to a restaurant and pay for a warm meal or empty my wallet not worrying how offensive that might be because in the end hunger is hunger. I want to tell you I call someone who loves them — that there is someone — and say your guys are lost, can you come? I want to tell you I sit down on the sidewalk at the corner of Waverly and pray — that all passing by, anonymous shoes marking the pavement, join in a chorus of prayer humming like cicadas in the Delta. I want to tell you the boy and the man eat food encircled by the warmth of bodies. I want to turn the cold night into a feast. I will tell you I am praying.