On the edge of my seat, I am willing to Do. Some. Thing.,
yet my reality and responsibility makes my small world seem even smaller.
I want to fly there right now, off the coast of Miami. But I don't.
Part of me says I'm ready. I'm willing. Though I know that truthfully, I'm not.
Real is 20,000 people live in Tent City.
I read this truth and see the images, and I'm ashamed though I know I shouldn't be.
Sitting underneath the cozy comfort of a blanket with my legs stretched out on my comfy couch, the sound of my clock tick-tocking, I notice my windows.
I can't stop looking up at those windows.
And some people don't have a couch. Or a blanket. Or windows.
Thousands of people are living in tents, people. Thousands.
And this is Real. Two hours off the coast of Florida.
And parents are giving their children away.
Is there a place for me in all of this?
Or am I just a witness to a commercial?
We say it's our own country we would want to help *if* we were to adopt. But I just want my writer-friend to bring back a child or two, or more, for me to save and cuddle up with under the safety of my blanket and behind these glass windows.
Real is more than these walls and beyond what I see outside my windows.
It's courage to Go. and Tell.
Yes, He is indeed Real there.
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