Today a small masterpiece, a sinuous path among the poppies, drew Mrs. Somers along. (She lived for the heat of the sun, although she didn't know it.).
Some people will travel to the farthest ends of the earth in search of miracles and mystery, but Mrs. Somers dressed herself each morning and, after her toast, when the little teapot clock over her oven said nine a.m., was more than content to steal away no farther than a block (or two or three) around the neighborhood.
Her morning walks were but a tiny bite taken out of the day, yet they kept her going. She felt pulled along by the stalwart presence of city flowers that persevered without fail, all year long, despite the toxic fumes and inhospitable slabs of asphalt and cement. It was interesting.
This morning she passed by the hard stone wall that abutted the yard of her elderly Asian neighbor whose multi-voweled name she could never seem to remember. Then she followed the poppy-edged path that wound around the hill at the end of her street and reminded her, with surprisingly great force, that life went along its meandering way even when you could no longer please your husband in bed and, come to think of it, probably never had.