Chalk dust

It's loud outside.

In the world these days.



But here I find myself in the quiet.

Unpacking a shipment

of new bags from Mapendo and Argentine.



I unfold each bag slowly, feeling the cloth in my hands.

tracing the stitches made just slightly uneven, by a hand-peddled sewing machine.

My heart rests for just a minute.


Soon I will go out in the world again.


But first I peer inside the darkness of each bag,
and look for what I know I will find.
White dust on black cloth,
The line of chalk that Argentine drew.
The path her scissors followed.

I let my fingers trace that path.
 
It is not enough.
Selling these bags.
Argentine and Mapendo are only 2 refugees.

But I know their names.

So I fold each bag carefully
and am thankful for the chalkdust that rubs off on my hands.