Allowance For Others

Word count ( 1260 )
I dreamt? About what? You may ask. A boy of three, maybe four.
I’ll tell you like the sunshine revealing a book to eyes. Our eyes? Yes.
I saw this story, sunbeaming on the boy’s hands and face, his skin of
Mahogany wood or North American Indian leather colour. His hair
space black, eyes green as a Quebec pasture. His clothing, white like
milk, donned his body like a Bedouin’s in the furnace-like heat.
Out of desert into wilderness down deserted roads to town, they went.
My dream continued with his father. Tall, upright like a spruce. But a non-
threatened one. Unlike the ones in Clayoquot on Vancouver Island? But
maybe they’re just glorified crosses. Who can tell? Besides, it’s dream-
time, and the swarthy father lugs a straw basket. His buffalo brown eyes,
sadly reminding me of a cow’s in her last days, were contrasted with his
banana cloak colours. Colours again. Some favoured by ego. But, deep
down, we all are blue. But we blew it, many say. Or have we ?
I forgot my lineage. Only book inklings trickle into our history for
the most part. But the father’s hands are calloused and strong, like
Donovan Bailey’s, who dreamed like Martin Luther King. Of books
righting wrong prejudices. How? you say. Perhaps the boy in my dream
can be a guide. Like the greatest Canadian , Pierre Trudeau , or England’s
Princess Diana. Or Mother Theresa lighting a candle in the Black Hole of
Calcutta. They all worked for just societies.
I watched as they approached town. They crossed a main road, the
boy’s hand buried in fatherly grip.They walked the stony, cracked streets
to the market. They took stock of an eagle rising into the blue with two
fish in its beak. Their eyes - our eyes - sparkled with wonder, like sunshine
on waves where they had just caught two silver fish.The eagle would just be
thankful. Fortunately, the father and son were, too. Their fish had
silverlined the father’s pockets. But they had not been selfish because they
had only taken two salmon out of the mighty west coast river, The Fraser.
The pace of the dream was weighed down by the net in the father’s
basket. The father and son approached the bread-monger, and saw this
dough-white grocer wave on the west streetside at them. Feeding people
seemed secondary to the dough he received. Dough-nuts? It could be,
although perhaps my dream is getting too greedy.
" We need to stop at the bread-monger’s to get some bread,“the father
said. It’s strange how we need bread to buy bread, and when we do the so-
called well-bred get the most. But, dream I must .
” Hello, Joe, " the grocer smiled. A solemn face. Like on most currency.
Is their a connection? " I see you’ve brought along little B.J. Hello B.J."
" Hello," answered B.J. smiling , his teeth white as walrus tusk. I was
thinking of ivory in my dream. Why? you ask. Because his hair was ebony
and his teeth ivory - like the song " Ebony And Ivory" living in harmony
in The Great White North.
The father bought five loaves of bread, and the grocer piled them into
the basket while joking that the whole town could be fed with that much
bread. The three of us began the trek home.The father said they would
read after dinner. When he said he would read a Robert W. Service poem ,
I was thrilled.
" Let’s take a different path up the hill to our house," the father stated
suddenly, pointing to a rather steep incline up their small B.C. mountain.
" On the way I’ll show you a wishing well." The boy and I were intrigued,
but for different reasons. I anticipated his curiousity, but my tongue was
not audible in my dream.
" What’s that, Dad?" I felt an impending revelation.
" You’ll see." He patted his son’s head.Then, we saw a man, ragged,
tipping over a garbage bin in an alley, looking for food. Tears formed as I
slept through it; the father and son walked in slow silence for half an
Silence isn’t always golden. Yet many majorities are not silent? You say.
They speak long but say little. I turned over in the hot Vancouver night. I
almost missed the boy drinking from his father’s canteen, which was soon
repocketed. A thought struck me: were they only on bread and water? I
released the notion of that sentence, scoffing immediately, and ashamed of
thinking it. But, like the grocer, I guess, we must weigh the pros and cons.
Suddenly, from a thorny bush crowned with blood-red roses, a magnificent
white dove arced through the sky with a billed olive branch. It soared until
our eyes got sore watching its Heavenly landing in its nest in a towering maple
tree. A tree of life, to be sold out someday, I pined.
" Aren’t doves beautiful birds?" the father asked. " Oh! Here it is. The
wishing well! “
The boy peered into the wishing well; it was spotted with gleaming coins
that children long for. They’re not long for this world without them. The
coins’ designs were obscured by the rotting fig leaves on top.
” Would you like to throw in a coin?" he asked his son.
" Yeah!" the boy responded, eyes bouncing bright, like tiny, emerald crystal
balls. I wished I could throw money away, too. I was maybe being a little
harsh, I backtracked. I know you want me to get on with the dream.
" First you make a wish, though," he explained, giving the boy a coin.
" Okay, I wish for -"
" No, no. You don’t tell me. It’s supposed to be a secret like when you blow
out candles on a birthday cake." I was rather dubious since wishes seldom
came true, wishing well or whatever. We’re hardly ever even wished well. But, I
liked this piece of my dream.
" Oh," the boy said, pausing. Suddenly, he threw the coin into the pool,
wrinkling the water like a bulldog’s face. The coin settled on top of
another one.
Pooling money; a good idea, but few do it. The boy fancied that the coin
looked like a shiny and round, tiny, full moon. It was baptised, he felt, like
people he’d seen in the temple.
" Do wishes always come true here, Dad?" the boy asked with a serious gaze.
" I would imagine so." I was afraid of losing my pessimism, yet
simultaneously, I realized how lucky I was to be displacing it.
" What do they do with the money when they take it out of the well, Dad?"
“Well, they probably give it to charity.
” What’s charity?" his son asked.
" Charity is when you help someone who is in need. Like the poor or sick."
" Yeah?“the boy said, his face purposed with deep thought.
” What are you thinking about, B.J.?" his father asked him. We were both in
" About that man in the alley." The child hesitated. “Dad, can I have my
allowance a day early?”
" Certainly, my son." His father unpocketed some coins and gave B.J. some.
“Are you going to buy something?”
" Sort of !" And then he threw his entire allowance into the well.
His father smiled and said: “You’re good boy, Buddha-Jesus! And you’re
destined for great things.” Then I awoke in wonder.


The poor living on bread and water and prisoners to the design of greed.

Though it seems noble to throw it into the well, and maybe some do,
I’ve volunteered enough to know,

if my service and sacrifice is anything, then put me under your wings,
hire me, offer me something.

Instead, we offer ourselves humility.

read in The Cry for Justice, how inhumane it is to ask a homeless person to think of his or her higher power, and still they do it, all the time. When you don’t know when you next meal is coming, where you will sleep for the night, and any kind of protection from others, you don’t think of God.

When a church going person serves exclusively for the homeless and hates Obamacare, and puts a sticker on their car, what does that tell you? Every single one of us has personal issues by how anything effects us in the pocketbook. I’ll serve when I have the time, but don’t take my money or livelihood. show less

They all say with addictions, You do it, nobody else can help you. Mixed message, because people serve you food, they give you a fiver, they give you clothes, and candles, and blankets. They want to help. But it’s designed for immediate need, and not underlying problems that they expect you to just resolve

from Hosseni, his works, American man visits Middle East, treated royally as a house guest, lavish food, anything he wanted, and the boy in the house, staring down at this man’s hands, he said, What, you want my watch on my wrist? Here you can have it. He didn’t want the watch, he wanted the food