A Beggar Girl and a Rich Boy

A Beggar Girl and a Rich Boy

An icy wind cuts through my thin garments like a blade. I
shiver and pull my ragged coat around me, but it offers little
protection from the biting cold. Lights from the nearest houses
glow brightly, like a beacon for the warmth within their walls.

That, of course, is just a guess. I’ve never been inside one.

My chapped and frostbitten hands, clumsy from the cold,
fumble through my pack for a thin, threadbare blanket. I pull it
around me, grateful for any extra warmth; it is a small comfort.
Ignoring the cries of my starved stomach, I try to settle by a
tree.

The television blares. I sip my hot chocolate with pink
marshmallows, my eyes glued to the screen. Beside me, my
phone blinks with a game I got bored of playing. I stretch
across the piles of throws and cushions, frustrated that I
cannot reach the plug for my charger.

Why don’t they make the cables longer?

I snatch a handful of cookies from the bowl on the table and
nibble on them as I snuggle back into the sofa. Out the
window, something catches my eye. A young girl is silhouetted
against the snow, huddling under a tree.

I gaze longingly at the houses, and unable to resist, I walk
toward them, trying to absorb their warmth through my eyes. I
peek through the downstairs window of the nearest house,
where a young boy stares blankly at a television.

He is eating and drinking, surrounded by soft cushions and
blankets. Clean, fluffy blankets—not like mine, as I grasp the
dirty, ragged corners in my pale hands.

I realize he has seen me, and my cheeks flush with what little
body heat I have left. I am trespassing and it is not my
business to be here, but now that his gaze has met mine, I
cannot seem to move away.

My eyes meet hers, and I feel embarrassed. She has nothing
and looks so cold; I have so much here. I am surrounded by
warmth and comfort. I put my cookies back in the bowl,
suddenly aware that she is painfully thin and must be starving.

If these thick panes of glass did not stand between us, I would
go to the window and give her a cookie, a blanket, maybe….

So many thoughts in a fleeting moment. Maybe I can open the
window?

He has put down his food. I hope I haven’t disturbed him…. I
just can’t stop looking. He is so lucky. I wonder if he has a
warm bed. Does he have friends, go to school, or go to sleep at
night with a full stomach?

If we were not on either side of a glass pane, in different
worlds, perhaps I would ask him. If my father hadn’t died
before I was born, if things had been different…perhaps I
would be his friend.

But we are different.

She looks into my world so longingly. She is probably
wondering if I have my own room and my own bed. I wonder if
she has ever had those things.

Perhaps if my father didn’t work so hard, so many miles away,
then I would be out there in the cold with that poor girl.
Perhaps I would be freezing, hungry, and homeless.

She must be about my age, too. How can our lives be so very
different?

As my breath creates little steam clouds on the glass, he
slowly and cautiously begins to move. He is edging toward the
window.

I press my hand flat against the glass, and he does the same. I
can almost feel his warmth.

She presses her hand against the glass, and I do the same. I
can almost feel her desperation.

A woman is entering the room behind him, her face twisted
with anger. I can just make out her screams.

“Away from the window, you stupid boy! That filthy girl… GET
AWAY. You have television to watch; what more do you want
from me?!”

She shoves him, and he sobs. I had no idea he was so
unloved.

As my mother chastises me for trying to help the girl, I see a
ragged female figure approaching her in the snow. She shoves
her and shouts.

“Idiot girl, get away from that window! Are you trying to get me
arrested?”

Maybe we aren’t so different after all.

Maybe we aren’t so different after all.