She was twelve,

and he was thirteen.

She was sweet, curly haired, dimpled, and black.

He was charming, smily, and talkative, but with only one hand.

 

They often ran together,

hand in hand in hand.

Away from the taunting,

the pointing, and the nastiness that was life for them.

 

He didn't care she was black,

he could see far beyond her skin.

She didn't care he had one hand,

she only needed one to hold.

 

Life for them went on,

they stayed side by side,

eventually they started their family.

But she was still tormented.

 

He was not.

But he felt he wasn't good enough,

he could only provide her one hand.

And tell her she was just the same as everyone else,

maybe even better.

 

Their children were oblivious.

If they were asked the definition of "beautiful",

it was all about their mother.

If they were asked about "brave",

the definition was of their father.

 

Their father, who couldn't find a job

that only required one hand.

Their mother who had three jobs that she hated,

becuase she was black, and unequal at every single one of them.

 

When she reached 30, she could take it no more.

And the family grieved for her for months,

and the father could only lift the family with one hand,

and soon, they were at the mercy of the streets.