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08/14/2004: "Unfinished"

Down every lane there is something barely seen. Something invisible to the hurried travelers, it is invisible out in the open. The mysterious walker may catch a rewarding glimpse. What is present potentially, appears actually. The weekend is carried in the womb of the week. The hot tar oozes out of the pavement like blood.

Sorry, that's as much as I can get out of that game. A friend, whose mother's funeral was remarked upon in an earlier version of these pages about a year ago, brought some books in to donate for the AAUW book sale. Another friend, mentioned often, appeared to me out of the pages of a donated book, a junior high yearbook. Readers, she wore braces. Seeing the image of that child, I feel like I have learned much about the adult she is -- all at a glimpse. A year ago, I was at Eunice's funeral, and I learned much about her the same way, extracting the life that is the pearl inside the dead oyster of a photograph.