"It is midsummer. You measure the climate, decide how you feel in relation to the heat and humidity. You walk toward the bus stop. Others, your neighbours, are waiting there. It is all so familiar. All at once you step on something soft. You feel it with your foot. Even through your shoe you have the sense of something unusual, something marked by a special `give.' It is a foreignness upon the pavement. Instinct pulls your foot away in an awkward little movement. You look down and see...a tiny naked body, its arms and legs flung apart, its head thrown back, its mouth agape, its face serious. A bird, you think, fallen from its nest. But there is no nest here on 73rd Street, no bird so big. It is rubber, then. A model, a...joke. Yes, that's it, a joke. And you bend to see. Because you must. And it is no joke. Such a gray softness can be but one thing. It is a baby, and dead.So how many more "streets of dead fetuses" will there be until we as a nation finally learn that a person is a person, no matter how small?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
John Pacheco, the author of the SoCon or Bust blog, once asked where do the “doctors” at the abortuary deposit unborn children for “disposal”? The answer is... no, it's not blowing in the wind. But it could sometimes be found on our streets, when plastic bags with what's regarded as "medical waste" suddenly break, exposing their shocking contents to the public.