A Shirt I Once Wore

Her eyes and skin, as dark and brown as the ground she treds upon. Her hair, black as night. Her face young, yet carved with the gaze of many more years. Her child clutched at her side, and her shirt, her shirt I once wore. This young thing, no older than 17, with her child glued to her hip was wearing a shirt from my own youth. It was a simple thing, but profound and piercing all the same. This young solider fighting for nothing more than the survival of herself and child, so desperate for help, had upon her my own outer layer, my own skin as it were. The same was she and I, yet I was here with such abundance that I was giving away free help, and she so beaten down, desperately begging for help. Hum, funny how tragic the fates of this world can be.