Time passes, thankfully. I no longer hear babies crying in the shower. A young girl, dressed in all black, runs down the street with a lit cigarette in her mouth, away from Gateway mental hospital. A woman and her child and a grocery cart at 10pm on a poorly lit street, collecting plastic. We passed the fields of gazing grain. We passed the setting sun. I still lick some wounds. Others have healed. I pick at the scabs. When I get anxious.
That woman with the shopping card and her child will forever linger in my mind, caught in the circle of your headlights, and at the same time completely oblivious to our presence just a few feet away.
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