I’m driving home, about to turn down my street,when I see them standing there in theparking lot of the China Peace restaurant.Halfway blanketed in the shadows castedfrom the building, a middle-aged Asian mansmokes a cigarette—the smoke twirling and evadingthe darkness to reach towards the afternoon light.His body bends at the back towards the ground,as if the split-lip concrete wants him to join inon its neglect and misery—as if it knows a thingor two about bodies being worn down by time.And there she is, standing tall and erect beneath theblinding sun—untouchable by the shadowsthat linger in the looming building behind her.A young black woman, with a baby curled gentlyinto her neck—like a promise being withheldfor when the sun will eventually soften its hunger.Her eyes are set like stone, worn down but not eroded,by the harsh light that surrounds her—neither absence norradiance carries monsters that can frighten her.I watch as the man surrenders his cigarette to the concrete,the remaining smoke drifting to form a feeble halo abovethe woman’s head—illuminating her as a modern-day Madonna.And for a brief moment, as I finally turn down my street,her stone gaze reaches mine—and all the love and sorrowof the world burns through the darkness of her eyes.