The one children’s story I cannot bear to read is that of the Little Match Girl. I am reminded of it when I see young – often homeless – men and women shooting up on cold pavements in San Francisco.
I imagine that they, too, have a strick home they cannot go back to, with a violent parent. They, too, with each hit, have a vision of their beloved dead grandmother that feels like a soft, warm hug.
It is heartwrenching to witness the harsh judgement and punitive justice system continue to inflict suffering on people who seem to be consumed by the need to self-medicate.