Mauricio writes...
Story 96 - Another kind of Christmas story...

There they are, at the intersection, the same as every day in Brazil's biggest cities.

Colorful clothes, not too shabby, they come to the first car, say something, there's no reply and they leave.

They come toward me.

Little boxes of mint candy in hand, they ask if I won't buy a couple. They say something about having to take money home, but I have no change and I'm in a hurry.

Besides, don't the authorities say we shouldn't give money to beggars?

Out of the corner of my eye I check to see that the doors are locked, gesture "no" with my finger, and step on the gas as the light changes. They go back to the sidewalk and wait for the next batch of cars that will very soon again be stopped by the light.

I look in the rear view mirror and see them playing with each other, rolling on the patchy grass in what's left of a little garden near the intersection, laughing and showing, at that moment, a happy, childlike, innocent side we expect in all children.

The little girl with the light, curly hair can't be more than six. She's the bigger one.

The boy, dark-skinned, looking like he might still be hiding a pacifier in his pocket, gazes at a bird as it flies over. He must envy the bird.

I'm farther away now but I can see them getting ready to accost the new wave of cars stopping at the red light.

It's not pleasant to see these defenseless children, far from their parents, far from school, far from the care of the family. And so close to hunger, to the dangers of the street, to the threats...

But what can I do?

I don't own the street, I don't work for the government, I'm not God...

What I have to do is take care of what is closest to me, what I can achieve with the resources I have.

I must concern myself with my family, my young daughter and son; my house, surrounded by high walls; my job...

In short, my commitments.

And in addition, today is a special day regarding the things under my charge: I finally found the doll my daughter asked for and the train my little boy drew in his letter to Santa.

I'll put these packages under our little Christmas tree with the other presents and see to it that they don't open them ahead of time.

I'll have to speak to them gruffly so they'll obey.

Kids, kids...

But I go into the house and feel its emptiness. Where's the tree?

I look in the bedrooms and there's no one in the beds. In fact, there are no beds.

In the kitchen, neither my wife nor anything edible.

I turn on the lights of the little house, all of them, and the brightness shows every inch of the solitude. No one... Nothing... Only memories.

I sit down in one of the few remaining chairs and remember, reluctantly, that they've all left. All of them, when the months of despair and frustrations piled up one after another. The salary wasn't sufficient, love was scarce, conflicts sprang up... and so my wife and the children decided to give me time to think. While they took refuge in a little town in the country, near close relatives, affectionate grandparents, and closer to nature.

The request for the doll, now I recall, was from last year. But I didn't have time to get it. And the note with the drawing made by the boy is all wrinkled from being tossed around in my pocket all this past year. Ignored.

By now he must have learned how to write at least a little. He wouldn't ask for the toy train just by way of a drawing.

They must be playing in a yard there in the town, very much like the two children I saw at the intersection.

Even in the way they walk and play...

I drive back, flying, to the corner where I saw the children.

They're no longer there. To my sorrow and longing.

I drive on, faster, in the direction of the little town in the country where I'm going to try to re-encounter the past, happiness, the family, my future.



Mauricio de Sousa

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