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Frida

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When she walked, her footsteps
turned the dull asphalt
into blue cobblestones.
She reached out her arm
and the cloudy sky cleared,
closed her eyes and opened them
to see that all of the paint-peeling houses
were bright and new.
She pressed her hands against her ears
and let go to the sound of music,
songbirds and instruments in tune and time.
Frida twirled and watched as
her dirty jeans became a flowered skirt,
messy hair fly in the wind,
shaking hands became still.

She wrapped her arms around the air,
step-step-glide,
step-step-glide.
She danced until the square was full of dancers.
Then she stood still and looked around,
at the flowerboxes and smiles and the people dancing,
at the world she’d created.
Then she looked at me.

“There’s only one thing left to do,” she said,
and took my hand.




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