Golden Grasses

I am a refugee living in the lap of luxury.

Seriously.

Free laundry, pool, hot breakfasts, stove, refrigerator, clean linens, towels and

hot, running water.

And we are sad, grieving, feeling a profound sense of loss.

House burned and charred.

Stuff thrown out.

Season change.

But I've been wondering a lot.
(cause Justice rears its head and demands to be reckoned with)

About other mothers and their crying children

whose homes have been burned by war, terror, hatred;

things more profound and chilling than bad wiring.

That are homeless and wandering.

Hungry, shoeless. Dirty. Cold. Illiterate.

And we talk insurance numbers into the thousands of dollars,

maybe even higher

and worry about what was lost.

When others have nothing and no hope of reclaiming or restoring.

I'm humbled.

As I ride the elevator.

And clean my clothes with designer detergent.

And brush my teeth in running water.

And soothe aches with hot tubs.

And cry, with soft white tissue in hand.

And eat hot food, made with love, by those who care.

And I wonder.

At other mothers.

Whose children cry.

But have no blanket to cover them.

Or new toy to snuggle with.

Or nourishing food to feed them.

Or good book to enrich their souls.

I wonder.

At their burden.

And mine seems...pretty shallow.

Not so much.

.

What's to come.

More of what we had.

Enough. More than enough.

And there are so many that live with nothing.

And we have so much.

So much.

I am humbled.

Humbled.