I pass the place where she used
to reside, the ground floor store decorated for Christmas, not the same store
as when she lived upstairs, yet all the rest is the the same, the church yard
next door, though the window she used to perch in are closed, like pennies on
eyes, of something long expired. I stroll here now much more bravely than I once
might have, knowing there is no threat of seeing her, except in the back of my
head. She is a photograph that never changes for me, when I know she must have,
seeing her face on what she posts, different, yet the same, yet not the same
face I can paste up in that window, she having moved on from this world to some
other in which I play no role, a Shakesperian tragedy in which we all have our
brief time on the stage. The stage remains. The players have changed.
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