After a beautiful string of eternal moments at the rose garden, I rode to another favorite spot. The spot where I first saw Levi. I love that name but not in the textile kind of way.
Never mind.
The spot where the column is at what one could almost consider to be the top of the park. But it's the top of the bottom of the park.
Never mind.
I rode up to the spot where they should have put Sacagawea and noted a women from some place in history enjoying a gentle swing. Well, perhaps it was not so gentle for her, but there she was, dressed in a calf-length brown skirt with a matching jacket. I had to imediately ditch the bike and go swing next to her.
"How old is she?'
She's from the old-country. Any old-country that is full of warm memories. That's how old she is. A light blue scarf, truer blue than the sky, framed a face warmed by the wisdom of centuries. With excitement I sat on the swing next to her and began to swing gently.
"Hello" I said. Her face smiled true. I was being true too.
I said something else that, like a dream, I can't remember. But like a dream, those ones truer than life, I felt everything,
More smiles.
"Do they have swings in Iran?'
Im swinging high now, my feet reaching for a brilliant sun while my head gets wrapped up in the earth. Believe me, this is not my normal condition. But Im still being true.
What if everything you heard was a lie?
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