Or, "Roses (a true story)."
Today, driving to the supermarket, listening to Yaz, I looked out of my open driver's side window and there was a woman walking alone down the sidewalk.
This all took place in a matter of seconds, but I'd put her somewhere between her late teens and early-to-mid 20s. She was wearing a black, sleeveless top and on her head, a do-rag, also black. Her skin was white, I think that what I could see of her hair was brown. As was her skirt, darker than her hair, wrap around and lightweight-looking.
In each of her hands she held rose petals, letting them fall onto the path as she walked.
My first thought was that she was scattering them, as you might at a wedding.
Part of me wanted to pull over, slow down, and say, "That's beautiful, what you're doing," but it was a long one-way street and it would have meant going around the block and I didn't want to look foolish.
But anyway, I did say aloud, "Thanks for that one, God."
A few minutes later I thought they might also have symbolized blood dripping from her wrists.
Photos follow for an obvious reason.
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