#124 (my perception of a fortyfive followup)

i traveled the world on nothing but medical supplies and charm. all those people, those people. and i could not help them.
bangladesh.
a tiny girl with a ballooned stomach and crooked toes who begged for me to fix her, when all i had left was a prayer and a few candies.
ireland.
the chronically ill mother with hollow eyes and the most haunting voice. she stood, her rail of a body so precarious against the wind coming off the moor. i heard the next year, an atlantic storm swept through and took the last of her strength with it.
johannesburg
nearly twenty percent of the population lives in refuse and are afflicted with all the consequences thereof. Not even 16, a boy lay with head in his mother's lap, listening to Kwaito as he took his last breath.

i had no camera. i bought card after damn postcard; afraid that my mind would start slipping, i would lose these moments somewhere along the way. if only i could.

maybe if i sell these memories, they will no longer exist.