I remember the glint of sunshine on her hair that day in July.I forget which.I remember that the sun made her glasses shine and I think there was a smile on her lips.I remember that she had short,curly tendrils of hair that fell over her forehead and when she smiled,her nose crinkled up.

That is all.I forget the rest.Whether we spoke.What she said to me if she did at all.If I could bring myself to look her in the eye-slanted,dark brown and glinting in the sun too from behind those glasses.Or maybe I looked away,knowing that the little storm like devastation bubbling in my heart,the tightening of my stomach,were details I should not let escape.

I did not write about her then.Maybe in a different time,in a different world I would have.Written her a poem,perhaps a song.In this world there is not much I can do.

Just remember the mass of black curls framing her face and a ring on her nose that sparkled with the rest of her.I do not know her name.I do not think I should have asked.

But there was sunlight streaming in through the windows then,into the  big cardboard house of a room,and she was a flickering glimmer that came in with the sun.

There is no sunlight here now,but I write it into being.I write her into being,as if she were here,as if she were at all.

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