Sometimes a sense of charity can be a very dangerous thing. I was unfortunate enough to have a fairy tale life within protective walls and arms, the luxury of a pseudo-communist family that gave me comforts of a fairy tale world. So I never thought the sense of fairy tale charity I held would not work in a real world. A boring summer afternoon, and there my destiny picks up interest first to venture far into a dusty street. I see him, socially, formally christened beggar, my fairy tale bringing up teaching me to call him beggar uncle. I see him jingle coins, I let myself feel sorry for the wrinkles on his skin,the beads of sweat that line up his dark skinned visage. I also notice the brown, jagged edged stick he holds and for a moment I wonder what its utility is. Perhaps as the stories say beggars are either blind or lame or both. I wait wishing for an opportunity to express my sense of charity to beggar uncle. And as my grand destiny would always will me towards a pot hole, his begging bowl slips off his hand and the jingle of coins noisily hits the dusty street.The chivalrous being in me hastens across and I am on my knees trying to help him pick up the coins and then I know the utility of beggar uncle's brown jagged edged stick. He lashes it out at me, his eyes gleaming with rage and shouts at me to not dare touch a single treasure. I do not know where my sense of charity was bred, perhaps at home or perhaps in the nun smelling convents. But then I am certain where it ended, on a dusty street, the afternoon of a summer sky.
