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.