19 at most, he says, but I know better, even if my hair is blonde and my eyes are blue and it is fairly difficult to make people see that they don't have to carry that bag for me, not even if I carry tragedies and secrets of a lifetime, says he, says she, and she has known men think and say so, and admire a flutter of mascara and a bit of a blush, hey, I like despair, and he says he'll let me have what I want, exactly, what I want is coffee in a not too smoky place and talk, and the 7 hours on the train to calm down and be grateful, unaware of time and reason.

The train, the view, an unbelievable, rare full moon and her interest echoes in this vault as she keeps asking me, taking more than I am willing to give, taking so much I stand and watch him suffocate, her plans suddenly become clear and blossom, once a wife and running errands of shopping and looking after a baby or two, I am tired, I whisper in his ears, " t h i s   i s   n o t   t h e   r i g h t   d i r e c t i o n ", yet the light draws me nearer, I am caught up in a soothing aimlessness and some sort of momentary bliss, a black and white picture in a matter of days, the present always present, the weight of a mistake  e a s y  as years fly by and we forget, or solemnly watch as they sink to the depths of the mind.

photo copyright © Snow Geese, for Richard Ford by Maude Schuyler Clay, published in Delta Land, University Press of Mississippi; the music is Liquid Diamonds by Tori Amos