Talking to strangers

I sat next to a woman, at the park, on a bench
With a smile on her face like a permanent scar
She watched life around her as stars watch us from the sky
Distant, removed, like she knew something we didn’t

She began to speak to herself
“Was there ever a sadder thing to wonder about
Than the ‘it might have beens of the road not taken
The silent ‘if onlys’ and the lonely ‘what ifs?”

Then she kept quiet as though expecting an answer
I looked around first, then began to whisper
“I’ve learned to hold back what is too intense
When there is no container to contain it,
No comforter to comfort…”

She interrupted me before I could finish
“Oh the fear of knowing and not being known
Of remembering and not being remembered
Because to be remembered is to be known and to be known is to be loved
Because…”

“There are other things too,” I interrupted impatiently
It was my turn now, she had to let me finish
“There are other things too beyond what words can string together
Like the ugliness of the truly beautiful
Or the fatigue from a race that never begun!”

She looked at me for the first time
“You are too young, far too young!”
She stood up slowly and looked at me again
With that smile on her face like a permanent scar.