. and on other occasions, and on yet more occasions. Watched as one crossed several weekends later, walked the streets with an apparent aimlessness that yet led with unerring certainty to a small outdoor café off the major streets, watched as one joined the other at the table, looking ... not precisely out of place, but not quite of this place. Watched as they would, then and later, with such careful casualness, such careful inadvertence, touch—hands, fingers, elbows, toes, arms, knees, shoulders, hips. Watched, knowing from a quirk of brow, tilt of head, from carefully masked expressions that masked nothing to one willing to look and see ... knowing that neither place nor duration mattered, only the fact of touching. Watched as one ... or the other ... would return to the café, the crossing, the streets, alone, merely wandering, or walking, talking with friends, while eyes desperately searched ... and exploded with inner light when the other was seen.The watcher who watched through. I'm not sure I have ever seen such joy in her face. Her eyes.Her tears of joy matched mine as I turned my hand over and our palms met. I wanted my Lindie on me. In my lap. I wanted my arms around her. I wanted to kiss her.I gave her hand a gentle tug. As I slid my chair back a little, immediately understanding my request, she settled into me.Her arms came around my neck and our faces touched. Our lips engaged and her sweetness surged through me.Any remnants of the peace that eluded me for eons washed away as we sat there next to the other hugging pair, my mother and my little Lindie. My daughter ... Michelle.Lindie reached up to my face as our lips parted and with a crook of her left index finger, she swiped at one of the traces of moisture that had wound itself down my face. Her hand came up to my forehead and swept over my head with a soft caress. She leaned in again to briefly touch our lips together.Then she turned to my mother and our daughter. Her face was beaming as she told.
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