Cement handprints.
It's a kind day outside. The crumpled, used lady walks slumped over to the other side of the street. Destination: The baseball field and the cement fences. She left her hands their years ago, and feels comfort when she visits them. Kneeling thickly, squishing herself together, trying ot be little, she places her digits in the dusty fingers.....they're still the same size. She hasn't grown. The dry leaves crumble under the warm heat of her skin. Thinking she was doing fine, and then realizing their really is something wrong is a nice token to fill her arms. It embraces her entire body and fixes the puzzle. All the pieces seem to fit. Stepping back to a place where you've been kept safe for later, and haven't grown tired of it's old colors, is a special thing to have. She leaves and walks home with the air, knowing her hands will always be someplace, even if she's nowhere.
When you're in silent company you know you're good friends. "Sometimes there's just nothing to say. And that's all right. You keep walking, not caring but understanding."
When you're in silent company you know you're good friends. "Sometimes there's just nothing to say. And that's all right. You keep walking, not caring but understanding."