Rosi wore her sadness like a housedress,
old and comfortable.
And like other everyday and often looked at things,
no one could later remember
its appearance, its dimensions.
This sadness, like a new freckle,
was one day noticed
and ever after forgotten,
absorbed into normalcy,
something the eye could afford to always see.
But now and then,
as she would stand stirring a pot,
or lighting a candle,
or watching the window,
a particular something would rise up in her
like the breath-bubble of a fish deep in a lake
and as it burst
on the surface,
no one could look
at anything else.