A Bug Named Hope

By Isha Sanghvi
 Dewy mornings were my favorite. Running into the garden and seeing the little beads of water trailing off
the peach blossom. Sitting in my father’s lap, while he told me the story of the little blue-nosed dragonfly. The story
of when a curious little boy opened a box and out flew evil, disease, sickness. But, daddy told me that a dragonfly
flew out as well. He said that it was all the hope we had. He said that though hope was frail, it was hard to kill. And
then, he belted out into a horrible interpretation of Mariah Carey that would make dewy mornings so unforgettable.
Dewy mornings were my favorite, but not anymore.

It was a dewy morning. Thin flickers of light escaped from the grey clouds, hitting Mother’s perfectly
crooked nose. She crinkled, knitting her eyebrows and stifled a gag whilst striding through the vague city filled with
vague men smoking stubbed cigars. Under the fluorescent lights of the lampposts, the rich men and women seemed
vibrant in their spring garb. But, I gaped at the black and white images of the little boys and girls pleading with their
calloused fingers. I wondered what it was like to hold such a tin box that looked nearly empty exempt from the
miscellany of dusty pennies.
“Dearie, would you happen to have any money?” the voice of an elderly woman rasped.
“Ignore them,” My mother whispered furtively before drawing me to her side. She bewildered me with
stories of violent man preying on aloof little girls who didn’t listen to their mothers. I huffed, puffed out my chest,
and let go of my mother’ s hand, only to receive a light spanking for my indecent act of bravery. And as I stared at
Mother’s thin wiry lips, it dawned on me that Mother was afraid. So, like the devout daughter I was, I proceeded to
soothe her with the troubles at Winston Church Elementary. She nodded occasionally holding her breath at every
chance meeting with a smoked cigar. Along the winding path, mother dragged me clumsily to the Parisian cafe she
promised her girlfriends she would be at in precisely three minutes. My arm throbbed in the mid-morning light, and
my lanky legs ached in bitter pain. I strangled to break my arm out of Mother’s grasp, when I clattered to the
ground.
I brushed my skirt before seeing a girl with golden hair and green eyes, whose pupils were focused intently
on my hand. I narrowed my eyes, to see that the vagrant was ogling at my watch. My gold watch.
“Do not make eye contact with them,” Mother’s voice quavered. Instinctively, I looked away, but then
looked back, shooting my hand over my watch. The girl and my mother noticed this, but while my mother scowled,
the girl smiled toothily.
She’s probably planning to steal it.
I bit my lip, stared at her for awhile, and then felt a spank on my back. My cheeks burnt as I followed
mother. And as the breeze fanned my face, the girl’s silhouette faded into the darkness of the city.

My eyes dilated as a pretentious woman and her daughter fled to the other side of the street. Even I could
concur that me and Nana weren’t the best-looking people here, but we certainly weren’t the worst. I think it had to
do with my sign, not my face. I looked at my reflection through the dirt-speckled steel container and rubbed at my
cheeks. Staring at my thin worn-down cardboard sign, I traced the words, 'Help' and 'GOD' and skimmed my callous
fingertips over my hot tears. The girl’s faint contour grew smaller in the bright maze of the people in the shops.
 Her face had an edge to it. Subconsciously, I fingered my watch and glanced back at the girl. As the cars
sped by, I tried to fit together fragments of images. I could finally make out the girl hunched over. An audible squeal
permeated the cold air. Along with several others, I glanced back to find puzzle pieces: a man running quickly with
a tin can, the girl pounding her fists on the ground, and the woman clutching her heart. With my hand in mother's
who pulled me along her rich path, I struggled to break free.
I furrowed my eyebrows, “Why isn’t anyone helping them?”
“They're impoverished.” My mother spat.

I envied the blind who at the particular moment didn't have to see the void where my earnings once were.
Who didn't have to see Nana, dying right in front of me. Who didn't have to see the word, 'GOD' invisibly etched out
of my sign. I looked down at my tattered sneakers, with a hole in the sole when my eyes spotted a pair of light pink
dress shoes. My eyes rose, gazing out at the rich girl with the cracked smile. The girl dropped an object into my hand
and ran off without a word, escaping my fleeting world. I stared down at my rough hands to see a gold watch.

After running back to fuming Mother, I gasped for air and smoothed the skin where the watch once left an
imprint. I felt better now that it was gone.

For some reason, whenever I saw the watch, I saw father's reflection. After Father died along with Mother,
Nana told me the story of The Little Bug Named Hope. And like her son, my father, she said when a curious little girl
(I didn’t correct her) opened a box, evil infected mankind, but a tiny bug (this I did correct her to say dragonfly) gave
man the power to live among evil.
Sometimes, I wanted to ask Nana, “What happened when there wasn’t any bug named hope?” I never
mustered up the courage because slowly I understood that when there wasn’t any hope, you became “people like
me.” But, I knew now. I had my hope. I stared down at the gold watch and saw the hope I needed, reflecting the
light back onto me.

Mother asked why. For all it was worth, it was a simple straightforward question. But sometimes, it’s the
straightforward questions that have complicated answers. So, I just shook my head and said, "That watch was
shabby, she needed it more than I did."
That was partly true.
In the pool of differences we share, I just wanted to give her a similarity. But the flaw was that I would
never know if we would be similar. So even if we weren’t one step closer to being similar, we might be one step
closer to being equal.