Member-only story
NO TITLE IS A TITLE
Naked words are necessary when the unfathomable happens
This story is not fiction.
Originally from Honduras, he is now sixteen years of age. It was a freak accident. He was seven years old in his “home” country and reached for an electrical wire high above the makeshift kitchen sink that brought dim light into his home. As he touched the wire, he felt pulses through his body….
A storm, as he calls it.
Grandpa stood up and heaved his body at him. They both fell.
Grandfather passed. Heart Failure. Immediately.
The boy lived.
The child’s small Honduran community came together.
Tears, food, prayer.
Tears, more food, more prayer.
Some collected money- others just kept on praying.
His story was told to me in broken English and Spanish.
He was diligent in trying his best to learn complicated English verbiage.
I listened with gracious diligence.
Before all of this “ el lio” (mess), as he calls it, he had a family that lived together. He told me, “Mi vida era hermosa” (My life was beautiful).
