Every Sunday they sit under the tree by the sidewalk along my front yard. Every Sunday they giggle and watch the hummingbirds, while sharing an ice cream sandwich. She always wears the same faded ribbons holding her pig tails. He reads to her from a children's book with a missing cover. Always the same book...Always the same worn dress and always the the man who needs a haircut. Obvious over a short time that they are father and daughter.
I've never seen a woman with them. Divorced and sharing a day with his daughter or raising her alone. Don't matter, really. It is tough times for them. It is obvious. Their clothes alone, tell a story of need.
Sunday is their day to share an ice cream sandwich (only one), read from the tattered book and watch the hummingbirds. A ritual of love for a daughter and a daughter for a father.
They share each other's love with the world that surrounds them. Even though they might not know such, but I suspect they do.
Once, he saw me at the window and asked if he could use my hose to wet a worn handkerchief to wash her face of ice cream. Of course I said, "Yes. Any time." Who, but a Republican, would refuse?
I leave two clean washcloths in a baggie next to the hose every Sunday morning. He returns them neatly folded and resealed in the baggie. His way of saying, "Thanks." Tis more than enough.
Her pig tails are brown and not tight; something a father isn't adept at, but obviously tries to do well. Ribbons are yellow. Or at least once were. They no longer shine like satin does when new. I know not the color of her eyes. But I can tell she has freckles. Her sandles are scuffed, as a child's should when seeing play.
I guess her to be about six or early into seven. One front tooth is missing. Reminds me a little of Pippi Longstocking, in a subtle way. Her smile is radiant when she giggles at the hummingbird antics.
He is gaunt and stooped shouldered. A world of worry harnesses him. His eyes look haunted, but his smile is pure when he looks at her. His voice changes for every character he reads from the tattered book. She giggles when his voice becomes the bear.
Eight blocks away is a shelter for the homeless. I suspect that is where they spend the nights and eat their meals. Day brings the endless wandering in hope of finding what they cannot afford, nor even dream of having any more.
Hard times for most now. I have very little. But on the second Sunday of each month, I put a few dollars in with the wash cloths. On those days he looks at my window, a tear of gratitutde given. He buys two ice cream sandwiches on those Sundays.
I stay hidden. A man needs his dignity, even when it is dented and creased.
Even on days it rains, they are there under the tree. A poor excuse for a blanket over their heads. They share the ice cream and sing to the rain.
I found a small stack of children's books that I read to my children so many, many years ago. I will place them beside the baggie with the washcloths.
All I know, is if he stops bringing her to sit under the tree, hope dies. For him, for her, for me and for all of us.
Such is the lesson of greed upon the world.