On a February day when 36 degrees felt like cashmere on your skin, I stood at a street corner.
Sun rained down - can I say that? because it did - that sun rained down. And when you haven’t had sunlight like that in days, it has a way of making you feel beloved.
Winter melted herself over drainpipes, eaves, awnings, anything she could, then drip, dripped into filthy puddles on sidewalks and in street potholes.
And it was one such pothole that a car sped through, which shot up a fantastic spray of filthy water on beloved me.
I looked down. A zillion filthy drops covered my coat and legs. Then - and why, I’m not sure - I looked up. And I saw a white SUV, which had seen the fantastic spraying, drive slowly past, giving me a wide berth.
If a car could drive lovingly, that white SUV was doing it. And if I could have run after it to say THANK YOU!, I would have.
But I couldn’t. So I stood on a street corner, covered in a zillion filthy drops of melted winter. And I felt, though in a different way than before, beloved.
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