Playing out her dreams, rocking plate in hand, she sieves for golden crumbs along the wandering river trail, oblivious that paradise is ablaze. That a harmless crèche playground drizzle had fledged, turned into a streetwise gang of ripened raindrop bullies troubled her not a jot. Welly boots and tangled locks tucked inside an oilskin rainhat saw to that, for they were, in any event, more than a match for bittersweet elements.
Long ago, back when she cared, she had concluded the rosy vagaries of fate to be the most romantic of things. Then one bleached shivering winters day, thumbing through her unsullied little black book of ‘then and now lovers’ it dawned on her all had been handpicked; realized that circumstance had played no part…that each and every way she looked at it, eyes wide open ‘choice’ and white walking cane blind ‘fate’, were sworn enemies.
It was at that time, staring at four walls became less of an issue, more a consuming hobby. It no longer troubled her if all that matters or mattered was reduced to ashes and gifted to the breeze.
“Slim pickings today, que sera, sera. I’ll try again tomorrow”