She’s not frightening, she’s in pain, that’s all. She’s just a woman alone. Like me, really
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goose plump and content waddles on the path. I know she is there though I don’t look to see. I just follow the path to the bench my bench by now. I sit down and assume my regular position: head in hands staring out at the gray-green pond.
There are a lot of swans today. The pond looks fuller for their rippled reflections are clear in the water in the bright splotches where the shy spring sun cracks its way through the clouds of winter. But I don’t see the sun’s likeness in the water. I notice only that the whiteness of the swan’s feathers is marred by the gray soot of the city.
I see gray everywhere now. Brown sometimes. And black. But I suppose that’s because I’m looking down.
Why should I look up? I can’t look up now that Davey is with his dad shut out of my life.
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