The Question Unasked


By Ishmael A. Soledad

She sits eyes downcast, staring unmoving beneath a knit hat. Daily passing I look out, she looks down. Between us no words, no glance.

Her eyes capture me. Huge moistened orbs in circles dark. Old. Stilled. Too pained for youth, the world whispers of years and fears coming, eroding belief and energy until it alone remains.

As her eyes, her sallow drawn face; as her face, her hands tight clasped, locked on knees; as her hands, her form frozen. Bent. Fixed.

What have my fifty years for her thirteen?

Yesterday she wasn’t there.

Today in her place a wreath.


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