The universe is frequently reduced to its most functional components in the fluorescent, sterile reality of a late-night McDonald’s: the distant, disconnected glow of cellphones in tired travelers’ hands, the transactional hum of the cash registers, and the rhythmic crackle of the deep fryers. This night, I walked about the room with the ponderous, instinctive steps of the genuinely weary. I was a routine-driven man who only wanted a fast lunch and the comfort of a peaceful evening. I didn’t anticipate seeing the globe put back together with a cardboard box and a plastic toy, or witnessing a great drama of human dignity.
My eyes strayed to a booth by the window while I waited for my order. A woman was sitting there wearing a coat that was obviously worn out from too many winters; the thin material was evidence of a life that had seen more than just the elements. Next to her was a young girl, maybe five or six years old, with that heartbreaking blend of early caution and innocent wonder on her face. Youngsters raised in the shadow of scarcity frequently acquire a particular type of stillness; they learn to look around a room with hope, but they bury that hope deep inside themselves to guard against the “no” that poverty inevitably demands.
