I cannot forget that look she gave me. I close my eyes and see her. It fancied a ghost–her eyes, blank and open and curious and wanting. Mine were hard and penetrating, but soft and gentle as the sadness within. Our eyes met, she looking up from a book I gather she read not, her face as serene and quiet where she sat merrily as a rose amidst a garden bed, and I a wet, worn and steadily moving fellow with heavy breathing and quick movement. Her hair was dark and long, lips bright, bold and red. There we were caught for a moment in time; she seemed familiar, as I might have to her. If but for a moment, we could have met, just to know her name, I would have stopped and said, “What beautiful eyes that angel has!” before going about my way.