(no subject)

They gave me a bag of money, a certificate, and a new pair of shoes and told me I was our salvation. I entered the metropolis in infinite hope and strength but was immediately confused. Signs, cars and doorways piled in front of me. My attention was so scattered I forgot there was a sky. The streets were corridors, a maze, another's home. Failing to find news of the place beyond place, the woman past woman, the man who was to blame I took to drinking with the country people who sit on fountain rims at night. Eventually each showed me a certificate, told me of a village, cried with me over infinite loss. We speak of leaving here, not to our native places, which if by some miracle still intact would rightly abominate us. But we've heard of cheap land near the coast. I think we have just enough, all told, though any one of us could have afforded it easily back on her day of arrival. I like a country girl with slightly newer shoes. Only together do we smile at all. The best will be to never speak of the villages again, or even the city. To look only for what's at hand. Last night I ate my certificate.