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Moved Across The Street Monologue

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The boy that’s moved across the street sells penny-flowers. A cent a rose, he says, proudly, A good deal, ‘anjad, ‘anjad.

He sits on the wood-rot of his front porch, smiles a smile that is more gum than teeth. Bad’ik warda? he always asks, in his light, child-voice. Bad’ik warda, ya t’ant?

You do not understand, but you do feel sorry for him. You’ve never seen his mother around, although the boy boasts—in his broken English—that the flowers all came from her garden in the yard. That’s lovely, you tell him, not really meaning it at all. Yet the boy would still beam that crescent-grin, too large for his small, olive face.

The neighbors carry him in whispers. The squatter’s son, they call him. Illegals, terrorists, they sneer, woman running from a …show more content…

But you still hear them. When you look to the boy, now, with his ever-smiling face, you wonder if he hears them, too. How old are you? you ask him, one day. He scrunches up his nose, signaling to you that he does not quite understand. You hold up your hand in response, counting off the fingers, one by one. Again, you ask, How many?

The boy brightens. He holds out his palms, proudly, and says, Sab’aa. You read off his fingers: seven.

You feel your throat tighten. You reach into your purse, and pull out a twenty-dollar bill. I’ll buy seven roses, you tell him. Sab’aa.

The boy’s eyes dart between you and the money in your hand. He says something that sounds like, Too much, and you say, Not at all, and then the trade is done. Before you can leave, he stops you, with a small fist closed on your sleeve. His skin is rough.

Better next time, he says, shyly, and when you tilt your head in question, he repeats, Better flower, next time, more beautiful. From me and Mama.

It sounds a lot like: Thank you. You carry the roses in your handbag for the rest of the day, careful of their necks and petals. There is no red or green in them, only brown and wilted edges.

But you are still careful with

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