And the Least of These
I was examining eggs, making sure the dozen I wanted to buy — free range, ethical, brown because that colour makes me happy — were free of cracks. The Bloor Street bodego was tiny, one narrow aisle crowded with bins of gladiola, dalhias and sunflowers alongside boxes of figs, green beans and bananas. Two cashiers kept the conveyor belt of humanity humming through the shop.
Next to me, a man was stacking blocks of cheese. We were close enough for me to count: one, two, three, four, five, lifted from the shelf, held in the palm of his hand. Casually. Who buys that much chedder from a bodego?
He was a bit scruffy, wearing a slouchy hoodie with a big pocket. Room enough for five blocks of cheese.
I didn’t want to judge him a thief, although that’s what I did. I thought about tapping him lightly on the arm and offering to pay for the cheese. But wouldn’t that be presuming too much?
I joined the line of paying customers as he walked towards the back of the store. I thought about telling the cashier I’d pay for the cheese. But maybe he was somewhere in the line behind me, fully planning to pay for his food himself. Maybe he could afford expensive cheese as easily as I could afford expensive eggs.
The conveyor belt lurched, the cashier yelled. A shopkeeper emerged from a back room, running towards the front of the shop. “Sir, sir,” he called.
The man headed for the door, his pocket pregnant with cheese.
A few minutes later, the shopkeeper returned, cheese in hand.
My city is full of cracks these days and thousands of people can’t afford the food they need. I stood next to one of them, witnessed his hunger and did nothing. My miscarriage of justice.
Today I gave money to two charities in my city who daily feed hungry people. A small penance. The least I can do for the least of these.
Lynda MacGibbon 