I say brothers because a woman who appears to be their mother sits on a crate behind them on the sidewalk. Collecting for them. The boys have close-cropped hair and shimmering black skin as if they have been sweating even more than the rest of us on this sticky night. Sweating for good reason, I see. Sweating because they are dancing, tap dancing, around the crate, around their mother, around the flow of tourists and other pedestrians.
People part as they approach.
Some show only a flicker of curiosity. Most give the brothers a wide berth. I am torn about what to do. All I feel is this immense sadness, sadness you are not supposed to feel in New Orleans. In the French Quarter.