Last week I came across a street.
It was quiet and serene,
Dappled with a gasoline leak.
I stared at the rainbow glare
Bright though the night was dark,
Marveling at the multi-chrome
In the foam of polluted rain puddles.
A lone pair of headlights
Shone suddenly down the road.
And in the flash of chrome,
I shielded my eyes
As the tires cried
To a halt on the asphalt.
And for a moment,
I just stood staring at the beams
Glaring in the air
Slightly quivering, focused
On my shivering frame.
The tires rolled silently past,
But in the flash of headlights
That lingered for a moment longer
I could see for the first time
On the road, a sheen of broken glass
Sparkling in the rainbow gas.
When I looked down,
The street was indeed scarred
By a crown of red-stained shards.
It was gory, but the story
It painted acquainted a viewer
With a sort of stunning glory.
It was a bloody scene
But seemed so beautiful in a way.
Cut to the other side of the city
Inside the gritty underpass of a highway
Where grey grass grows scantily.
A young man lies
With his hands between his thighs
To keep out the cold
That has taken a hold
Of his bare feet on the concrete.
He silently watches the road
As the traffic flowed
From downtown to the suburbs
Where others have homes.
But he’s roamed the roads
His whole life.
And twice said goodbye
To loved ones who died.
See, he grew up on the streets--
Nothing to his name
And never really knowing who to blame.
At the moment, he’s choked
With relentless hopes
Trying to prevent this ocean
Of fireless emotion he feels.
He feels confined,
Like he’s losing his mind.
So he starts to sing.
The tune is eerie and slow
And wearily flows over the road.
A stranger on the other side of the street
Decides to pause for a moment
And listen
To the glistening music
And she thinks
It’s a strange melody
But a remedy to her bad day
And just so beautiful, in a way.
Cut to a young girl in India
A few decades ago
Who plays in the shade
Of a bay leaf tree
In the city of Kharagpur.
She’s quiet and innocent
And spent the day
Hiding from the house maid
Because she was afraid
To look at the maid’s face.
The maid was a burn victim
And on her left side,
Where her skin had been
Was nothing but charred scars,
Burned and blackened.
But the young girl never heard
What had really happened.
She had been told it was a
“Gasoline accident,”
But years of wonder spent,
She learned that it wasn’t
An accident at all,
But the maid’s attempt
At a gruesome escape
From a husband that raped and beat her.
That young girl was my mother.
And she’s got endless other stories too.
But when she told me this one,
She said how much she misses that woman
And how she wishes she could go back in time
And help her.
She says she would no longer be afraid
To look at the maid’s face
Because despite the scars and the gasoline,
She is the most beautiful human
My mother has ever seen.