Riding the Driver

As I was lingering on my cloudy patio this morning, draped in a white wool long sweater, enjoying this time off by myself and reading some well nourishing french litterature, I saw her coming out of the building.

Front door open for a while, a city bus service waiting patiently, driver out to greet her by her first name.

She came out, slowly, gripping her walker fiercely, one step at a time towards freedom.  All dressed up, hair and makeup done, smiling at life like a long lost lover missing her daily fix.

He opened the side door for her.  I wish men would open doors for me like that.  Asked her if she needed assistance, while operating the wheelchair electric mecanism so that she could get in without lifting even her small finger.

Humanity right in from of me.

What’s been lost to cities and strangers.  Aliveness.

I wonder where she was going?  I imagine her at the downtown mall right now, wheels strolling on the marble floor of the chic Victoria Secret.  Wanting to buy something to make her feel sexy.

Riding that driver in that bus.

The one that opens all the right doors.

Cruising and bumping.

The morning air was damp and the coffee was misting my glasses with every sip.  It was good to read in french, my native tongue, the one of love.  I felt like time stood still while the spring birds were chanting the return of the much awaited summer encore.

Lazy days of time passing you by are quite poetic sometime, if you take the luxury of opening your eyes and slowly savor life around you.



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