She's there on the corner this morning, as she is every morning.
A bundle of newspapers in her arms.
Her bundle of joy swaddled snugly on her back.
Her face time-worn, flush with the creases of a life insecure.
Her clothing time-tested, warm in the cold, cool in the heat.
Seemingly devoid of emotion, her face now and then reveals an inner light
– an inner light that flickers with the sale of a paper,
then comes to full beam with the coo of her son.
She probably doesn't — or can't — read the product she pushes,
it serves merely to feed the mouths that call to her for sustenance.
Reports of pestilence, the day's corruptions and the growing war dead
are forgotten amidst the smiling innocence of her hijo.
Her son may never know material wealth, or even a life of plenty
but he'll know the love of his mother.
He may never ride in the fancy cars to which she caters, or vacation at Disneyland
but he'll understand the value of family.
One day, limbs that now flail aimlessly upon his mother's back will toil for her.
One day, his strong hands will do the heavy work so that his mother won't have to.
Perhaps, his efforts will keep her from perching her aging body on some unforgiving sidewalk,
at the feet of passersby, hand outstretched for pesos.
If he too can only avoid the pestilence, the corruptions and war that fill the front pages of the daily news.