Under the Same Sun
By Mark Cote
I watched a young boy play in the sand at the beach the other day, never growing tired of the shifting waterline as it took with it his attempts at building sand castles and sand dinosaurs.
All day long, wrestling with his brother, their giggles carrying across the stretch of sand between us getting lost in the faint lyrics of a Rolling Stone song playing off somewhere on a distant radio; the smell of sunscreen intoxicating as their mother covered their eyes with her open hand, spraying them both from head to toe for the third time.
Under the same sun the world seemed on fire.
Under the same sun, the man on the blanket across from them was dying of cancer.
Under the same sun, on the other side of the world, young children, boys their age, were dying in the desert sand by the thousands, starving and dreaming of a world that cared to notice.
Under the same sun, at that moment a child stood on a corner in a part of what the adults called the third world, naked, defecating and urinating where he stood, begging for something to eat.
Under the same sun, a little boy was chained at the ankle to the loom that wove the bathing suits they wore, the ones that trapped sand and caused a rash.
Under the same sun.
The same sun that beats down on them as they run to the waters edge to wash the sand from their hands, racing to be first to the blanket mom laid out, complete with peanut butter sandwiches and a bag of chips.