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She walks into the bank, says hello to
someone she knows then waits for her turn, looking through the window at
something distant.
When she leaves, her two small children
follow her to the Pizza van where she collects her order.
She holds it in her left hand; her right
hand is hooked through the handle of a wicker basket that she balances on her
hip.
Her hip is small, but her hip is strong.
In the basket there is a pumpkin.
There is no wind to ruffle her hair, even
if there was it wouldn’t; she has pushed it into a wild bunch held by a simple
clip.
Then she walks home.
In the kitchen, when no one is looking, she
unclips her hair and it escapes down her neck.
She places the pizza on the table.
At the sink she washes a lettuce, admiring
the contrast of the fresh green of new life and the white hardness of old.
Droplets of water lie on her hands, they
look like diamonds.
She sets the leafs in a stainless steel
bowl and mixes a vinaigrette.
Then she sits down and looks out of the
window at something far away.
Her children run in, climb up onto their
chairs and they start eating the pizza, she turns the salad in the vinaigrette
and sets some on their plates.
She has a son.
She has a daughter.
Her mother taught her how to make the
vinaigrette.
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