She walked the same path
three times this morning,
and only noticed the
third loop.
The park was nearly empty
— a few joggers, a
woman with a stroller,
the man who always fed
the pigeons near the
fountain. They moved with
purpose she did not
remember packing.
Her coffee had gone cold
in her hand without her
noticing the moment it
stopped being warm. The
bench by the lilac bush
was wet from a rain she
had slept through. She
sat anyway.
Somewhere between the
second lap and the
third, her mind had
stepped sideways. Not
away from her — just
out of the room. She
let it.
When she finally stood up
to leave, the sun had
moved a full hand-span
across the grass. She
could not say what she
had done for that hour.
She knew only that she
had not been asked to
explain it.
She walked home by a
different route. It
felt, for a few blocks,
like a small kind of
returning.