The teacher who tries and tries and cries and cries and knows the child won’t round the walls in robes and golds.
The police officer who firmly, then roughly, then regrettably finds that child, tossed in grit and shame.
The policy maker who aspires and runs, ambitious and bright, sure, who is apalled and wronged, and wrong, and fails that child, dirty and torn.
The warmaker, not of his own choosing, who fights and burns and hurts and breaks, true to his word, and comes back, lost the chld.
The blind man, able to see, knowing he has a hand to extend, closes his eyes, keeps his hands in his pockets so he might not get the soot on him from the child, lost and stolen.
See the mother mistrusting and fierce.
He tells her she is angry from the comfort of his weakness, shuns the child for his fear.
When she turns, she is not defeated. She is resolved.
That is the blind man’s legacy.