A hot summer day

Walking

on a hot summer day

a day like any other one

On the way I encounter

old women and men

sheltered from the sun

 

Some women wear black

nothing but black

for the rest of their lives

They’re grieving widows, you see

 

As a child, a silly thought

occurred to me:

Do they wear black underwear, too?

Do aprons count?

 

Walking

down to the bakery

The whole street smells

of freshly baked bread

Instant happiness

 

A quick transaction later

I stand outside

with a warm loaf of bread

in a paper bag

 

looking

into the sunshine

feeling

the hot sun on my face

hearing

cicadas buzzing

quiet

 

A soft breeze runs through

my hair

Life

is truly perfect here.

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