Some songs you find yourself constantly singing. Some tune incessantly humming. The same streets, walking. The same people, talking to. You walk along the riverbank, you smile at a stranger pulling silly faces to amuse a child. You smile at the baker handing you a freshly baked, still warm, loaf of bread. You let the scent fill the room, then you take a deep breath, your nose working in unison with the mouth. There’s that tree you pass every day with constantly renewed engravings of young love. There is that elderly gentleman with a beret and a cane. He too goes to your bakery. Unlike you, he doesn’t find use for an entire loaf. So he shares it with the pigeons, talking to them. He has made out identifiers for each one of them, has given them names. His friends can fly. Mine cannot. In a way, I should be jealous. So I smile and my face gets wrinkly. Around my eyes. My forehead. The edges of my mouth. And to think that smooth skin is considered a sign of beauty… What if not wrinkles are testimony to a life lived to the fullest, to joy, and laughter, and love? I start tapping to the same old beat with my shoes, my hands follow suit. I start humming that same tune. I tune out everything else. Get down and take a drink, and fill your water tank.

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