I have just opened up my book,

turned the first pages, relaxed,

when the “ko ko” sounds behind me

and there is yet another

person at the door for me.

This one, fatherless, wants funds

to go to school, to buy his books,

and prayer to help him through.

I turn to find distraction in the kitchen.

This is my day of rest, sabbat,

my Saturday when patterns change

and life can take a different path

(not always quieter, but I can hope for

fewer slopes, and more smooth stretches).

Then hands clap, calling for attention.

This time a father says the urgent need

is medicine: his child is feverish and weak.

I’m at the counter, pulling out

the flour, brown sugar, and bananas,

new recipe for a snack I love.

I go to wash my hands, turn on the faucet,

and clear water gushes out.

The filter drips supplies into the jug.

Out the window I see a train of

women passing, slowly plodding,

weighty pans of water on their heads,

coming from the well behind the house.

I’m beating dates into the bread

when yet another voice intrudes,

calling out a greeting.

I sigh, turn off the beater,

head over to the entry once again

and see a gaunt young woman –

emaciated, even—bowing meekly.

She’s desperate for bail out,

more loans to pay back loans to creditors

(she’d needed meds for her sick kids,

and fertilizer for her struggling fields.)

She’s on her own; I have my mate,

devoted, true, my counterpart.

She’s barely scraping by, while I

have luxuries: banana bread and

canned tomatoes, passion fruit

beside papayas on the window sill,

fresh granola cooling in its pan.

Sharing a tiny fraction of

my abundant wealth, I help her out.

She promises some peanuts from her farm.

Her smile is wide as Côte d’Ivoire.

But, turning back to the rich batter

tantalizingly brown in the bowl,

I wonder what the next interruption

will be: who else will come to fracture

my carefully hoarded Saturday calm?

I feel the drain on my reserves,

compassion shriveling to stinginess.

Can’t I ever have a normal day,

time to myself in my home, privacy?

The Voice comes wafting between

the fissures in my protest:

“You say you want to be like me.

This, too, is doing what I do.”

They came to you—the sick, the hopeless,

women looking for rescue, the poor,

the ones who hoped for mercy

and the bored, out to get attention

or catch the latest thrill.

They filled the minutes and the hours

until your mom thought you were crazy.

But these were those you lived your life

to save, and so you loved them.

There were the times you hid away

to pray, renew your strength.

So show me how and when to hide,

to shut the door or find a mountain,

and how to welcome crowds.

It’s hard to be like you!

 © Linnea Boese, 2011