October 15, 2009
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I am invisible. I hear things other don’t. I see things others don’t. I am the invisible observer. Not the hide behind bushes type, but I sit outside in the open, on a town square bench and I see…

how he looks at her when she is examining the store front, looking at baby cribs. I see how she looks at the cashier—she is in a hurry; to get home, to fix dinner, to lock herself in the bathroom with lavender scented candles. I see how the scared eyes open wider and wider, and the little body runs up and down the aisle, and then relief, in a split second, when he finds his mom. I hear the snotty teenager yell at her mom, and the next one’s pride in telling her dad about a test she undoubtedly did well on. I am here; they know I can see and hear, but to them, I am invisible.

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