Moving pictures.

Every fall she tends to do that thing, that lowered-brow thing, where she squints at the clouds and wonders about those random characters and precious hearts who have touched her.

The woman who she played mah jongg with after she graduated from college? That elderly neighbor who came racing out of the dark of his garage that one night to pick her up off the asphalt, her knees bloodied, and the handlebars of her bike askew. Oh, and the teacher in third grade who told her she had such pretty hair–that compliment carried her through that whole year of being eight years old. Her first lover, deceased now. The man who pulled over when her tire was out. Flash. The lady who came to clean her parents carpets and then stayed for dinner and wine. Click. The funeral director who passed her a pamphlet on grief and then ran his hand over her shoulder with such unpracticed tenderness. The minister who was found out having an affair and ran out of town, but she wished he’d stay. Click. The person who asked for a dollar for a cup of coffee, then came running to give it back to her because he found a dollar in his pocket. The boy she first wrote love poetry for, who can’t be found online or through friends, is he alive?  The doctor, the flash, the checker at the market, the singer at the college nightclub who dedicated  songs to her, the neighbor who helped her jimmy her door open, the flash, the flash, the whir, the snorkeling rental equipment boy who upgraded her to premium equipment because he liked her smile, the shush, the woman who snuck her extra cookies at hot lunch, the young girl at the, the chemist at, the whir, the belhop, the flash, click, flash, click, click, shush, whir.