She turns her back, her face away from the people. I want to see her eyes to see what color they are. Are they green? I think that are grey and cold. Maybe at some point they were green or possibly blue but now they are dark and lonely. They have use still. Her eyes carry her down the road. How she sees the road is not the same as we do but maybe she does, maybe we share the same eyes, the same grey eyes. We share the road everyday and I wonder is she coming or going? But isn’t that the question we all ask ourselves. Is she a metaphor, carrying what’s left of her life, a tiny part of what she has seen? All else was too heavy to keep. The walk would take too long. She can’t be in too big of a hurry, that’s not the point of life, to traverse without seeing, without smelling. I see the things she sees, but I travel too fast each day, what she sees in slow motion I see nothing but a blur. My eyes are green and I can see her as she turns her back on all of us as we move through life. The question still remains, is she coming or going, are we coming or going?