Sprouting

How the other half, lives, translated…

Child, your dreams aren’t, on the floors.  Early in the morn, you were, pulled by your mother, to set us a stand, your sense of sleep died on your way to setting up.  You’d told the vegetables, that all your childish dreams were, made of, organic materials, like the plants, inseparable.  As your body became, immune to the noises of the early mornings, the calls of bargaining, bartering, you must be thinking of, where your lunch’s coming from, or how that baseball game of your childhood will, turn out.  You didn’t care, which stacks of aged ginger caught the eyes of the grocery shoppers, which onions made the peelers cried or how the tears, decided, to take revenge, on the taste buds either, or even, which cloves of garlic are, about to burp, you’d, turned into, that pitiful kitten by the side of the roads, and, breathed in, the unknowns, the uncertainties, of your future.  The Malaysian Ringgit came in, and out of consciousness, the world of childhood, suddenly, halted, around the marketplaces.  You’d, listened, closely to hear the tar that paved the roads, called out to you, the soundwaves, so thin and delicate, you can sew it together, and, nobody can, stop you, from wanting, to grow up fast.  The crowd dissipated, after you’d gotten up on your feet, you’d fond, that all the vegetables, are, connected to something that you loved, leaving behind the two of you, mother and son, to collect the day into a basket, then, she took your hand, take you home.

here’s the photograph that came with this passage, courtesy of UDN.com

And so, this, is how a young child stays , to make a living, and, life gets hard for them, as we may imagine, but, to them, this, is just, an ordinary day, of their, ordinary lives…how the other half, lives.