The Price of Small Things

I have seen a revolution folded inside a paper bag of apples. Not the supermarket kind of love— just a trembling hand From a child who counts her first salary in heartbeats, not dollars And decided to quench my hunger what ecosystem measures that? A neighbor once handed me water— not a jugful but a cup that confesses “I see your thirst and I refuse to let you disappear quietly.” And lovers travel forests in search of roses, but sometimes a single one survives the massacre and says more than the bouquet: “I am fragile enough to mean love to you.” Parents use kisses to seal love on foreheads of loved children saying: “You are permitted to exist.” What greater inheritance than that? And then— a student, still wet with the innocence of unbroken dreams, throws words carelessly— “You are the best Teacher. I love you.” Simple gifts are anarchists— they riot against the tyranny of price. And I—an archivist of tenderness— hoard these as memories: a bottle of juice, a kiss, a rose, a cup of water. The world will keep counting its money. And I will keep counting apples in shopping bags.