lying on the sidewalk of a busy street a woman a paramedic is working on her gift of breath to the dead passersby stand in a circle frozen transfixed the victim's shabby rags her filth the bundle of blankets on the walk the cardboard box where not long before she lay asleep a rosewood recorder with an ivory handle clutched in her fist watch as one the crowd, bound by curiosity and wonder
You hoped for her revival?
No. Not like that... that's the thing... more like a simple wish to follow a story to its end not wanting to let go till it was over and yet... almost indifferent to its outcome how else explain how someone who has not existed for anyone--maybe not even for herself no longer part of the world inhabited by those now keeping vigil invisible until that moment should--at the hour of her death become in all her strangeness--a presence?
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