Walk­ing to Where We Are


Room Magazine - - HA | MY NAME IS A TYPO -

Years ago I would have walked through this park to get some­where—the shoe store, per­haps, or the drug­store not far from the train sta­tion at the end of the pedes­trian zone.

I would have paid lit­tle at­ten­tion to the ducks pad­dling in the large pond the wa­ter so clear that you can see their co­ral feet, all thir­teen pairs mov­ing as if pro­pelled by the same force.

I would, quite likely, not have no­ticed the wings of the pea­cock but­ter­fly on the marigolds, stir­ring ever so slightly as if moved by the breath of a sleep­ing child, beau­ti­ful large eyes clos­ing with every beat of its wings.

My thoughts would have been a thou­sand steps ahead.

Nor would we have pointed these things out to each other, my mother and I, had we walked the grav­elled paths to­gether, although even then we both had the same gift of be­ing able to see small things.

She taught me, af­ter all, by ex­am­ple, not by rote, be­fore I was eager to put dis­tance be­tween her and me, to prove how lit­tle I was like her, still un­aware how fu­tile that at­tempt.

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