April 29th, 2003

Faces

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Harold and I stood on the curb and watched the Easter parade amble by. White puffs of fireworks smoke appeared in the bright sky. From a balcony an old woman in a black dress tossed confetti.
“The faces tell us we’re no longer in America,” I said.
“And the uniforms as well,” Harold replied.
“Do you ever miss it? Home, I mean.”
“Never. They’ll have to drag me back, kicking and screaming. And you?”
“I’ve developed quite a fondness for olive trees, palms, umbrella pines, the scent of wildflowers. And the view of the Mediterranean from my veranda.”
“It’s settled then. We’re here to stay.”


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