Tuesday, February 9, 2010


At the orphanage, the little girl comes to sit on my lap as always. The person-in-charge tells her to move away, though I protest, she says that the kid is too "touchy". Then the little girl slowly comes and sits at my feet when we are talking grown-up talk. I scratch her head while I continue talking, and draw her closer, while keeping up the conversation so that the lady does not notice. The little girl is content.

Touch. We need it like air. Especially children who have no fathers and mothers and loving arms always waiting to enfold them, the security of shoulders that were created just so that they can always rest their heads.

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