She looked at me from across the crowds, and our eyes locked. A connection was made between us in that instant, and the moment seemed to last forever.

She walked stiff-backed and unpolished through the train station, head held high, wrapped in an unpatterned blue kerchief that concealed most of her dirty-blond locks. They slicked down her back, silk and gossamer on the dark fabric, light shimmering, playing and chasing away as she moved under the fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling. Her hands sat gentle and idle in her lap as she strode. Her cheeks had been pinched almost to bruising and the purple-tinged pink of them stood sharp on her creamy, pale flesh. No make-up adorned her face, a tired face. A young woman, too young to be so tired. I can see the lines that will form on her face, beginning their ascent to the surface of her perfect, smooth skin. Lines around her mouth, between her eyebrows, next to her nostrils, under her eyes.  Fatigue lines, of hard living and struggle, threatening to rise to the fore, age and wear not yet finding their way to the present, made known in a life not quite. Not quite happy, not quite content, not quite easy, not quite blessed. She wears the worry of the future on her visage and only some see it. She’s plain and simple and humble, only black and dark blue clothing, squeaking, heavy black work shoes, well-worn, hands callused and heart too, from too much hard labor and no end of it in sight.

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