I meet Lilian from Brazil who lives in Tucson, Arizona, traveling here with her mother and then on to Switzerland for a cruise down a river, somewhere.  The places run together, all of us passing through on our way to somewhere else.

Everywhere I look there is another window or door each with its own beauty that can’t be duplicated, layers of years.

Each morning I catch my reflection, scrutinizing what I see.  I see in others a grace of years.  In the mirror: a stranger looking back at me.

Lilian from Brazil tells of changes she has made, will make, now beyond mid-life, reinventing, finding someone new: There you are–again–a former self, knocking on the door.

At the cafe, life is teeming.  I eat enough to be sated; back home I devour in greedy gobbles, where more is never enough.

A lone man sits down at a long table for six or eight.  He looks American, taking up space.  I assess who he is, his life.  Time passes, still, and still he sits, alone.

Nine people sit at this cafe on a beautiful cool sunny day, seven lost in their phones, quick to hide from each other, disappear.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever read this carefully, see this clearly again.