…She wears a long white dress that reaches under her knees and a leather top jacket, torn on the elbows. Her hair, a mix of silver and faded blond with a few scattered black locks. She is pretty. She looks defiant and confident. She doesn’t wear any make up on, except some black eye shadow. She doesn’t even carry a purse. There is something odd in the way she carries herself I can’t explain. She looks like a hippie, but then I notice a black motorbike helmet next to her betraying a motorcycle somewhere around. Then I see her black, motor boots. She has a child- looking face, but she holds the cigarette between her lips like a macho biker. Deep puffs – exhaling large menthol clouds of white smoke. Suddenly I feel ashamed for my naked feet and my shoes with all that dried mud on them.
That woman was Emily Winter. That’s how I met her for the first time, that’s how I remember her and that’s how she visited me earlier today, after a long time. And I know that she came to me determined to stay.
Welcome Home, Emily.
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