Goodbye to Armelle

The Winter Before Last.


The bicycle lying against the wall waits for a ride,
lying, locked, against the cement wall waiting for life.
Up on the top floor, through my bathroom window,
I often looked at her, the scrawny French woman I made fun of.
Winter before last,
I looked instead at the still silent snow over her bicycle,
recalling the splashy sounds on a busy street,
people hurrying, unaware of tired burdens resting, worried on South Street.
The door had been half open, the shoes neatly placed by her purse
lying perfectly, ready to depart, the forgotten book lying open, pages flawlessly marked.

No note was found, no explanation revealed
Death, only, lay, like sticky dust in the air,
while I, still, look for the bicycle from winter before last.
By Susana Pestana
12/5/2004