helpless

I found a little notebook, put away, I'd bought a couple on sale as Christmas presents last year. A block of red paper, sandwiched between a perfect red leather square, with 'DIVA' printed on it in old typewriter font, and a definition, held together by a little leather strip and a leather heart, at one corner.

It's gorgeous, somehow, neat and perfect. A luxury, a little slice of design, pristine out of its protective plastic.

The tag on it says 'Made in China' and as I looked at it, stroked the smooth redness of the leather, I wondered if a child's hands had handled it as they put it together, for my throwaway luxury, this thing I don't need. And I felt guilty, and helpless as I thought about it.

Today as I walked out of Tesco with the kids, a woman with a big black eye walked in. She might have been a traveller, with soft hair,and a wide, open, freckled face and nice brown eyes. She looked kind, and a little apologetic, her jacket wet with rain.

And I felt sympathetic, and guilty, as if I should somehow be able to do something to help, to stop her from ever being hit in the face again, to enable her, or give her some strength, or something. Anything to make this awful, awful thing better. Instead of just colluding, looking away, pretending that there's nothing wrong. Helpless.