Ordinary People - Rodger

Rodger

She never wears red, my quiet lady who always gives me a kind smile.  Why is she so bold today?  Has she finally a gentleman in her life?  I do hope so.  She seems so lonely, sometimes as we ride this bus together.  She has such generous eyes, so filled with love to share.

But I make my daily pilgrimage to my Mary's resting place.  To spend some time remembering how life once was, before it changed forever.

I stroll the park and feed the pigeons. And from my favorite green park bench, the one beside the sprawling oak, I watch the young mother push her baby stroller.  The little, little girl is bundled warm and her hair is already golden curls, much like her mother's.

I have my daily cup of coffee and my apple pie, served by the friendly waitress with the name Sally embroidered on her pink and white striped uniform.  I know no more than that, except that she came here from Montreal years ago and never left.  The old drunk sits in the corner half the day before finally being hustled out by the huge police officer that Sally calls by name, "Hey Mick."  The old drunk, I sense, is a deeply wounded man, he limps in both his body and his spirit.  The officer seems to enjoy his work of moving his weight around.  But it is his job I suppose.

I wander through the library hoping to see the librarian who wears the tortoise shell hair band in her Scottish red hair.  She always wears a Celtic cross around her neck and always asks me how my life has been.  I appreciate her momentary kindness.

The groceries are for the day and little more, fruits and vegetables, some macaroni and cheese some days, other days I make spaghetti, a loaf of bread, and one of two other things that last more than a day or two.  No more than I can carry with me on the bus.

Lexington Avenue is my stop.  The doorman is named Constantine and he wears a mustache and an old world accent from someplace European. 

Room 224.  My goldfish have the names, King and Thor.

The End

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