Stops Without Memory · Alejandro Guipe

Weathered skin, one cannot tell whether from the sun or from the grime. Bare feet that wander, without the shelter of a shoe. Children who come and go. They slip among the people, they dig through the garbage, they seek to quiet their hungry and anxious stomachs with the scraps left behind by the passengers of a stop that lies somewhere very, very far away, whose name no one has any intention of finding out. The smallest one holds out his hands as a sign of need; the courtesy of a young woman responds with a little of her refreshing drink. It is Christmas, and the closest thing to a dinner for that child will be the leftovers of others. Poverty can destroy childhood, but childhood does not disappear because of poverty. The gathered boys boast of the loot they have collected as though they were trophies. The bus announces its departure; the passengers leave the stop behind. Some will have been only occasional witnesses to the misery, and others, perhaps, will be so for the rest of their lives.