Heading Home
I saw her on the subway. As bitter of a year as always, the gates cramped. Her frame was small, and she hunched over like a crippled bird. Her face reminded me of the long nights in the summer out in the open fields, when a fear of the future hadn’t existed. And she still clung to herself as if she were her only solace. Smelling of grease, the stench of the city hung in the air like a bad joke and reminded me of where I was. I turned my head before she saw me, and quickly jumped out at the first stop, holding tight to the flowers in my hand.