He's retired
Postcards of Memory (10) November
Red leaves are rolling about the square in front of our station. My eyes are searching for the sweetpotato man, but his place is empty. He is missing every day.
I was hoping to see him, although he had told me in spring that after thirty-five years here, he would retire. He returns to the country, where he's been working every summer at some kind of a transportation company. As an explanation for me to get it right, he pointed at the building of a bank in the corner of the square: I can move it for you from here to - over there.
In our shopping street the asphalt has been changed to colourful stone cover recently, a new cafe and a shiny bento shop has been opened; suddenly we turned to be trendy. Perhaps it's only me who'd cling to the past and would like if everything stayed as it used to be.
And what about the sweet potato man? Somewhere far, far away, over the mountains, he is busy making banks flying through the sky.
Red leaves are rolling about the square in front of our station. My eyes are searching for the sweetpotato man, but his place is empty. He is missing every day.
I was hoping to see him, although he had told me in spring that after thirty-five years here, he would retire. He returns to the country, where he's been working every summer at some kind of a transportation company. As an explanation for me to get it right, he pointed at the building of a bank in the corner of the square: I can move it for you from here to - over there.
In our shopping street the asphalt has been changed to colourful stone cover recently, a new cafe and a shiny bento shop has been opened; suddenly we turned to be trendy. Perhaps it's only me who'd cling to the past and would like if everything stayed as it used to be.
And what about the sweet potato man? Somewhere far, far away, over the mountains, he is busy making banks flying through the sky.
posted by bm at 10:03 AM
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