Stamps

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I have been thinking about the apparently small things that connect us, that help, in times of trouble.  Living in a market town, you often see some of the same people in the street, and in the shops, as you go about running errands, dealing with the necessary things of life.  Sometimes the tiniest of connections can change your day, can make you feel closer the rest of your human family.  And sometimes, going out partly in search of such connection, you find you are able to give, as well as receive.
At least, I hope so.
So often, we underestimate the power of these small, slight gestures.
They matter.

 

Stamps

Two of the blinds were down,
Position Closed, but yours
hovered, unreadable, just
above your head.

There was   no queue,
and I approached you
cautiously,
clutching thick manila
envelopes.

Are you open? I asked.
As you raised your head,
I saw trails of tears down
your smudged cheeks,
such large heavy drops.

First class, two –
I’m so sorry.
You smiled, and
I stretched out my
hand and touched
fingertips to the glass,

Passed warm coins
through, which you
held a moment,
then gave me stamps,
straightening your back.

 

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