sightings

Everyone knows who she is. She's never owned a car, rides her bicycle with
the wicker carrier, everywhere. There are sightings of her pedaling down the river past the bridge and farther. Her long hair is grey, and festooned with bright silk flowers. She has an instant smile and a daily affirmation. She studies your face when she talks to you, holds your thoughts and releases them like balloons until they are pinpricks above the clouds. "You make your own heaven," she muses, reclining in a child's plastic swimming pool in her yard, repeating your name when you look lost.