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She slides one foot forward as though the next step may be a trap to push her over. Her slippers are quite new, plush ruby velvet, from a fancy department store. The scarf on her silvery hair flaps in the breeze, yearning towards the dancing tulips she holds in a tremulous hand.

The tulips are rudely pink, violent blushing brides, opening themselves for ardent Spring. She knows they are everything. Her thin legs and sunken cheeks shall not be fattened. But her eyes shall feast on flowers.

Another step is taken, as galaxies somewhere form and collapse. Her ankles glisten with a marble blue. Hordes stream past, avoiding her without acknowledgement. A few, a tiny few, may register admiration. So much struggle, so much fortitude and pain to stagger out and buy those tulips! Will I do that when I am so aged and broken?

Me? I am sad. I look at the staggering velvet slippers and I think, no. You need a wheelchair and you will be freed to buy food and flowers.

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