She sits on a bus stop bench, contemplating life’s unbalance.
Worried that someone will notice the look of confusion on her face, as she furrows her brow, and tries to make sense of pictures with words that are foreign to her.
She cracks a nervous smile at a passerby, as she stares at the sign in front of her.
Gawking at the red and yellow chipped paint that made up various letters, as if observing a work of art by Picasso, Monet, or some other artist she knows nothing about.
She’s ashamed of who she is, and what her life has become.
The words are a piercing reminder of her roots; a place where picking berries in a sweltering summer field, driven on the sweat and tears of young boys and girls, who instead of being in school, worked their fingers until they were chafed with blood, while earning just enough coin to pay for Daddy’s poker chips.
The desire to be better, but never truly better, because of the daily obligations at home.
She was the oldest, but not the wisest. She knew better to never say no to her father, but “Yes, Sir” when speaking to him.
All this time, and still it haunts her. A constant whisper in her ear, every time she sees these pictures, with meaningless words.