From a Queens Window, by Sarayah Wright
She roams the street with her cart everyday—once in the morning then again at night. I watch from my window. I hear the rubber wheels scrape against the concrete, the tinkering of pebbles hitting against cold metal. She quickens her stride; the cart almost flies down the sidewalk. She must hurry before they come to collect. She needsthis. Her skin, the color of old age and labor: she works too hard, I can tell. It becomes too much to watch, but my eyes stay glued, trying to uncover the truths hidden behind the acid of her skin, the bottles in her hand. With wrinkles in her forehead, small body, back in a forever-yielding position, she bends down grabbing the plastic lifeline. One by one, she picks them up.
“Five cents, ten cents, fifteen….” It’s not enough.
She scavenges the mountain of black disposing bags. Her cart—once vacant—is now a sea of scattered reds and blues, a collection of labels she cannot afford but wants for her children. It’s hope. She needs this. The smell burns tears in her eyes and with the fabric of her sleeve, torn with holes running up the arm, she wipes them away.
“Keep your head up. Move on.” Her calloused, olive hands grip the faded-red plastic of the cart as she shuffles down the street.
All she needs are a few more, and then maybe she can buy some rolls or sweet bread from the bakery. “Yeah, they’ll like that. It’s been a while.”
She stops again. Bottle after bottle, she repeats the mantra: five cents, ten cents, fifteen. She digs. Beads of sweat trickle down the side of her collar. Webs of oil-covered silk hair stick to the back of her scaled neck, but still she digs, ignoring the snickering and blank stares from those who do not understand. From those who watch from windows. Soon, there’s enough for food. Freeing her shirt from a few crumbs, she drags her cart down the street. Hope flickers in the crescent of her eyes.
