I. The Gate Was Locked

An old Irish woman walked the road to see the mill.
Ninety, maybe more.
The light was soft. The traffic did not slow.

Cinnamon and I were walking the river path,
watching nettles grow and the willow leaning in,
when she appeared — frail, curious,
her steps interrupted, but her voice still woven with stories.

She reached the gate. It was locked.
She stood there, surprised, not angry —
just disappointed in the world
for forgetting to leave things open.

She turned back. We turned with her.
Three of us now, one memory wide.

She told us of thirteen siblings,
of a mother who did not have time for her wedding,
of her best friend from Italy.
She told me I reminded her of this friend —
who is now dead.

She needed a friend.

We walked back to Cobham like an echo returning to the source.
By the river, she stood on the platform,
not for the screen,
but for the water.

Cinnamon and I sat under a tree.
And she…
simply went.

She walked into the day,
and the moment sealed itself behind her
like water after a stone drops.

Let this be remembered.

Let this be a beginning.

Let this be Living, Still.