Through the Looking Glass

I grabbed a tree which hadn't toppled and let its roots ground me. Waves of familiar and not hustle by. I observe. I am learning how to be comfortable by myself with others.

I have one ear tuned to Berlioz, the other to the beginning of autumn breeze. A man is reading a newspaper a couple paces away. A woman attends to her neglected crossword. Friday's are always the hardest. A child chases his red balloon. A girl doles out cigarettes. A boy lights up.

Was this the spark he was looking for?

Would he know if I asked him?

Would I know if he asked me?

Next week we relive Creation. Next week the fist-shaped bruise will further fade.

It is the season of beginning again.