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The couple in front of us in the Ferris wheel line are
old. His veined legs, thin knob knees peer out from under
bright green shorts. He strokes the ridges of her back,
which you can see through her thin white cotton blouse. She
asks him to put her new snood on--and they both admire the
tortoiseshell plastic barrette with its dangling string bag
for her hair. He puts it on. It is too much for her
hair.
We watch. You whisper in my ear that that would look nice on
me.
We all climb the studded silver steps up to the car. The
old couple moves slowly, the veins on her hands gripping the
faded green paint on the railing tightly, her feet not
moving until they are sure she will not fall. You
finger my hair as the couple climb
slowly into a blue car.
The blue looks like them, I think. It's a dark blue like the
summer sky hours after twilight.
For us a yellow car. Not the hot white yellow of an August
morning, but a cartoon's bright yellow of
hopes and dreams.
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