Morning Post, March 20, 2015

Every morning when I rise I look out my window.  I expect to see more or less the same thing.  The houses and trees, the streets and streetlamps, maybe a car passing by.  This morning, like many mornings in this late winter/early spring, was still grey with twilight, and whispered with a misting rain.  All of that I knew and expected and was prepared for, but I saw more than that.

Two little girls, probably sisters, were walking through the mist in their bright, floral rain slickers.  This was striking for several reasons.  I know my neighborhood very well, and there are no girls this young hereabout.  More than that, these girls were alone, unsupervised in what was almost darkness and there was no bus to catch, no carpool evident.  They were just walking.  The shorter girl carried an unbrella that a gust had turned inside out and, as they continued, the taller girl took the edge of the umbrella and snapped it back into form.  They were unafraid and joyful; secure in someone’s love and part of a story that I knew nothing of.

But they reminded me, in a piercing way, of so many other stories that I once knew and lived, and I found it very hard to turn away from that surprising and happy sight and let them vanish in the morning mist.

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