Today, you get to meet sixteen year old me. Yes, this is a piece I wrote many years ago, after watching a news report about the Children of the Street (a term used to refer to homeless children). In Mexico, this is a real problem. That news special shook me. And at sixteen, all I knew to do was write my feelings in the way of a short fiction story.

If you are new here, I don’t post fiction here, so bear with me.

I heard a deafening sound, like a cry in the night for help. Quickly I opened my eyes feeling disoriented. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the night. It must have been a nightmare.

I pulled the covers off, swung my legs to the side and slowly sat up listening to the silence in my bedroom. The alarm clock read 1:00 am. Silence. 1:07. It was just a dream, go back to bed.

I laid back down; closed my eyes. I tossed and turned. 1:49 am. Stupid dream, and I can’t even remember it!

I peeled the blankets off again and stood up. My room was cold. I grabbed the throw blanket at the feet of my bed and wrapped it tightly around me as I crossed the room to look outside the window.

The moon was full and bright. I saw a man running along the street and disappear as he turned the corner. So much happens under this moon and starts while I sleep.

The same anxiousness that woke me up came back. What’s wrong with me?

Then I noticed, in the distance, two children rummaging through a dumpster. Is that a little boy… and a little girl? Siblings? Children of the street? Oh poor little things. I watched as the bigger, older boy handed old newspapers and rags to the little girl, who seemed to arrange them against the wall creating a make-shift bed. They both trembled in the cold. I watched as they laid down and covered themselves with the waste of others.

Their life shouldn’t be like this. They belong in a home, with loving parents, not in the streets. I wanted to open the window, to yell out, “Children, here, take my blanket!” Maybe I didn’t have a nightmare, maybe it is the reality of these children that woke me up. Thousands of children living in the streets wishing they had a place to call home. It is so sad.

I watched them. Their bodies covered in newspapers and old scraps. It was hard to believe there were living children in that pile of trash. I wonder if they get to eat every day.

I felt helpless, helpless against a culture that so easily could turn it’s back and ignore the problem. Ignore the children. It’s like we have sentenced them to this lifestyle, homeless, living in the streets. Children of the streets.

I care. I care about them.

I couldn’t watch any longer, so I moved away from the window.

The next morning I peeked out the window  to check on the children. The little girl still slept while her brother knelt by her side. I quickly got dressed.

“Mom!” I asked as I ran down the stairs and found her making breakfast for my little sisters, “You know that old wool blanket in the entry closet? Can I have it?”

“What for?”

“There are some homeless kids across the street, it’s so cold mom.”

She flipped a pancake, then looked at me, “Sure. And you might as well take them something to eat.”

I grabbed a box of cookies and got the blanket, then I ran outside hoping I wouldn’t miss the kids.

As I approached the children, I realized the little boy was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked

My question startled him. As he looked at me I saw the fear, “My sister won’t wake up” he said, “and she’s not breathing.”

I felt guilty. Guilty because I had stayed comfortable in my house the night before. Guilty because I had great intentions and no actions. I was guilty because I didn’t do anything to help. Guilty because I’d never cared.

“I’ll have my mom call an ambulance.” I said.

There was nothing more I could do for the little girl, she was gone. I handed the blanket and the cookies to the boy.

“Thanks” he said, “It’s nice to know someone cares.”

His words hit deep, if he only knew I had been watching.

He left before the ambulance and police arrived to take his sister’s body.

For a while I stared at the frail body laying on the concrete floor amidst old newspapers and rags. Tears in my eyes, and my mom’s arm wrapped around me, the way it should be. The way this little girl should have grown up.

And through tears I asked, “Mom, does anyone care?”