There is a woman in Skagway. Maybe sixty. Maybe seventy. It’s Alaska...maybe fifty. I got a chance to introduce myself one day when she came out to Jewell Gardens where I work. She’d just taken a picture of a fly on our blue bench.
Her face is lined like the rich patina of an ancient cup. When she speaks, one side of her mouth lifts into a thing of sweetness. But the lines deepen and sharpen, and I fear a fragility in her that might break into too many pieces for me to gather and put back together.
I sat on the bench beside her and admired her fly.
We say “hey” now all the time, friends. For her fly was lovely; and from her eyes I see beauty in flies, faces, and friendship.