PATCHWORK

I have had what you may call a "hard life". While things go well for some, there is always an unheard few that face more and more obstacles every day. Like the world is karmically predisposed to bitch-slap us every time we try to do something we care about. Some may call it "bad luck" or a "hard life", but it's the only life I've ever known.
I build things up; but just when I'm about to see the light of day, something always pushes me back down and takes it all away. The world is just "out to get me".
They try to destroy me and tear me down. But they'll never get it all. There is always a piece of me left. Each time, a tiny, beat-up square with frayed edges is left behind. It is so small it's beyond their notice. My one little scrap of hope.
I go back to zero. I start again, and each one of these scraps is added to my child. The lessons I have learned, the trials I have gone through, so that my child will never have to go through them himself. He will be everything I can never be. These dirty, mismatched leftovers-- I put them to work.
It is far too late for me. These lines in my face are scraping deeper and deeper every day. These fingers, gnarled and stained, are getting harder and harder to use. I don't have much left to give at the end of it all. But what I do have, I always give to him.
These little pieces have to mean something, right? I know that once he's all put together, he has to live. I see him sitting up there on that shelf, his black button eyes staring at me, but he never moves. The dust up there is getting thicker, but I'm too tired to brush it off. How many more pieces will it take to make him work? How much more can I give? Piece by piece, I sew together this patchwork child, because he is my only hope.