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July 29, 2007

A middle-aged man of Indian decent wanders up and down the raised sidewalk linking the front porches of East Tabor Road.  He moves slowly, one foot at a time, holding his traditional male’s skirt in his fingers so it doesn’t drag across the ground.  His expression appears blank, his eyes gazing straight ahead as if I weren’t there, as if he weren’t there. 

Perhaps his spirit is somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, suspended in the vast physical and cultural expanse that separates India from the United States.  Looking towards home, longing for familiar shores.  Wavering, not yet willing to settle on distant soil.

So the body wanders, up and down, back and forth.  Waiting for love, life, passion to strike again.  Waiting for the spirit to catch up with reality.

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