Water

I have always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long

line of weepers. I am the hurting kind. I keep searching

for proof.

-Ada Limon

I ask the woman with the ocean blue

t-shirt, toothy smile and clipboard what

cause she is advocating for. She tells me

water and explains how the cleanliness

of the tap water here varies by neighborhood.

And tax base. She says people in the

south of the city are getting sick. And

dying. And I start drying. And so does

she. She asks what my name is and says

in the language of her country it means

light. In Burundi. I ask her name and tell

her Tamara means date in Hebrew. And

then we talk about Israel. And war, which

she knows. I am a Tutsi. She says. People

know about Rwanda, no one knows about

Burundi. She knows. She tells me, outside

the grocery store where we move to make

way for shoppers with carts coming in and

out. She tells me about her family. Their

escape. How she made it to America. How

old are you I ask. Nineteen she says in

perfect English. We came a few years ago

she tells me. And we talk again about water

and how helping heals. A bit she tells me,

another tear falls down her cheek. And

she asks if she can hug me and we hold

each other. As the shoppers continue to

go in and out.