I read a story this morning that pulled tears toward my eyes:
Her name is Diamond.
By the time she was 21 she’d had three children with three different baby-daddies and been around a lion’s share of city blocks. Her eyes are as deep brown as the dirt on the earth, but not as dark as her heart or as heavy as her shoulders feel under the weight of ongoing drug abuse, failed relationships and the guilt of neglecting her children. She’s chosen her addiction over kissing her kids goodnight, goddamned habit she can’t kick for the love of anything – even though she kicks herself to sleep every evening when she lays her head down on a different street corner, or at the local bus stop depending on the weather. Diamond would give thanks to the powers that be – if she believed in them – for the pretty looks that make her so successful at panhandling for money as well as selling the poems she writes on her wrist on the rare occasion when she’s hit with inspiration. Maybe in five years or never, Diamond will have just enough ounces of willpower to get straight and finish high school. Maybe in five years or never she’ll be alive and clean enough to raise her own kids. Maybe in five years or never she’ll have a job and live in her own home, like she always dreamed.
It will either be in five years…or never.