Giao had skipped class for a week, again.

I went to her house, at the end of a dark alley,

always hints of urine and sewage, scents of cheap perfume,

and water dripped through a crack in the ceiling 

down to a bucket on the floor.

A dozen water tanks sat across the hallway 

of the crowded and decrepit complex,

in case the city cut their water 

when the overdue notice went ignored.

Giao said she had been picking up shifts at her relative’s restaurant.

She complained about the wages

and said no one else would take her

because of the legal working age.

I told her to go back to school.

She gave me the typical: 

“But school doesn’t make money,” and

“My mom might come back if we weren’t too poor.”

How was explaining the synthesis of metacaspase inhibitors, 

and restating the steps for antibiotic isolation easier 

than explaining to a 7-year-old girl that

a few years of school will make her more money 

than working her entire life at the relative’s restaurant.

How do I explain to a 7-year-old girl that 

her mother leaving for another man 

wasn’t because they were too poor, 

and that bringing her mother home was not her responsibility.

How do I explain

everything,

anything,

or nothing 

  at all …