Where did she go?
We'd pulled into the dollar store, shopped, and pulled out again.
Did she have family? Did they know where she was?
This was downtown, in the middle of stores and traffic. I imagined she had a few dollars and change in hand. Perhaps, she was getting something to eat—or maybe something to relieve her pain.
She wore a marshmallow type coat, brown. Nothing covered her silver hair. It was getting late. It was getting chilly.
I had seen her slowly crossing a gravel lot, far in the distance. Then she was gone. Her thread crossed mine, pulled it taut for a fleeting moment, and then it slipped away.
Image: Copyright 2012 Gina Fairchild