How is this child still alive?

This was a writing I, Midlife created based on a real-life writing prompt we witnessed in Downtown Denver. Sadly, this demographic is often overlooked, deliberately ignored, or just simply unwanted in public view.

No explanation. No comfort. No assurances.

“How is this child still alive?” he shouted. Stomping his right foot with full force. Then the left foot. Right foot. Again with the right. Right, then left.

This child, refusing to die like old memories of the past. Stomping, thrashing, violently desperate to eradicate its presence.

A memory of being forgotten. Abandoned. Unable to make that child go away.

He remembers walking beside his father in a tattered part of the city;  head volleying back and forth. Broken bottles, boarded windows and eyes of despair staring deep into his soul. Somehow warning him not to follow their path. Never return.

“Away! Stay far away!” he heard in his subconscious. Heeding these silent warnings, he vows never to end up in this place again.

Why was his Dad bringing him here? This is no place for a human, much less a boy, a mere child of seven or eight. What are we doing here? No explanation. No comfort. No assurances.

His mind flashes back to a faded memory of toddlerhood, sitting next to his parents in a cold, white room. His mother visibly upset, wearing a light blue dress tied in the back. His father, in a dark brown suit, trying to calm her down.

Memories seem to weave in and out, but he knows without a doubt his mother not living with them soon after seeing her in that room.

No explanation. No comfort. No assurances. Just him and his Dad in the house. Breakfast with Dad, then off with “Aunt Cheryl” while Dad worked. Then home again. Every day for what seemed an eternity.

Back to that trip in the city. Days before, his father was just as upset as his mother was those years ago. No white room, no blue dress. Just sitting there on the couch with hands over his face crying. “No. No. What are we-“ his voice trailing off.

Aunt Cheryl wasn’t around anymore and Dad stopped wearing suits. Again, no explanation, no comfort, no assurances. Just me and Dad.

In the city, we walked to an old building. One that no one would ever call home. I was wrong. Walking in, I covered my nose from the smell and didn’t dare look at anyone.  What are we doing here? No explanation. No comfort. No assurances.

The next memory is waking up to the sound of a fire truck racing down the street. Dogs barking from the noise. I looked around at our one room apartment we now called home. What are we doing here? No explanation. No comfort. No assurances.

Days and days, no food. Dad nowhere to be found. No one in the hallways, no one to help.

Food in the trash can tastes better than anything I’ve had in my life. Stomach cramping; malnourished. Head dizzy with panic and uncertainty.

“How is this child still alive?” I heard Dad mumble under his breath upon his return. No explanation. No comfort. No assurances.

Memory failing, or mind saving me from pain, I have no recollection of my father after that moment. Did he die? What  happened to my Mother? What do I do now? No explanation. No comfort. No assurances.

“How is this child still alive?” I ask myself. Face is older, features grizzled. Broken bottles and boarded windows are the same as my memories of childhood. I have returned, swearing never to do so. I have no choice. Thrust into the streets never to be anyone’s memory.

Garbage cuisine and the kindness of strangers has kept me alive. Scorching sun in the Summer. Bitter cold snow in the Winter. Somehow this child is still alive. Alive with no life. Alive without purpose. Survival my only companion.

No explanation. No comfort. No assurances.

“How is this child still alive?”