In Her Torn Slippers

In the cool harmattan morning she was sent out
With her only dress and her bruised slippers.
Not to play, Not to learn, not to eat.
But to provide, to fend, to sell.
A routine she had been acquainted with since she was 3.

With her destination far and her feet weary,
She took each step, shivering with every move of the wind,
Dreaming and hoping for a better life
Where she could learn with her mates
And play the games she saw them play during their break

Approaching the city, she could see the lights,
The early morning workers pacing about,
She could also hear the distant carols.
The Mango tree at the Town square stood strong
And made a cool shade under which she sold her oranges

Christmas would be tomorrow
But tomorrow, like every other Christmas,
Would be spent in this Town square,
Under the famous mango tree selling oranges
For her family's next meal.

She would watch the well dressed people go to church to celebrate Jesus.
She would watch them come back.
Some to their houses to receive guests,
Others to their friend’s houses to be entertained.
She had heard her mom say Jesus is love

But the people who passed by showed her no love.
No gifts, no food, nothing.
That was the reason for the season right?
Giving, sharing, loving, caring?
Maybe the love was supposed to be shared only among friends

Maybe Christmas was only for those who could afford it.
As for her, she hoped tomorrow might bring with it a change in her Christmas routine.
She had finished selling for the day.
So, she packed her tray and dragged her feet home
In her torn slippers.