Paula Hudson Lunn


lakeside bench winter


I saw you


You were making that face in the mirror – the one where you pucker your lips and see if it’s cute

Waiting to cross at the light – did you know your shoes were too big for your feet

I saw you down the street – you had the most beautiful hair

I saw your eyes dart around while your dog shat on the lawn

I saw the back of your head – it was warm and inviting in the afternoon sun


I saw you

Empty the cream at the coffee shop and not bother to tell the barrista

because you emptied it into a water bottle in your coat’s deep pocket

I saw you rake leaves and watch from around the corner as kids jumped in

I saw you walk your evening laps around the block tapping your cane on aging cracks –

we say hello if the dark hasn’t blinded us


I saw you

Reach for his hand, look up into his eyes over the rim of your coffee

I saw you sitting in the back of the library reading Macleans

I saw you jaywalk nonchalantly, giving the driver the finger as if he owed you some right


I saw you

The younger you, the child you were. He shows up in your face when the light comes into your eyes.

I’m always amazed at how I can see that.

I saw you peaking up over the books and from the tins of vegetables, suspicious and watching

I saw you in clothes that melted to you like you were born to wear them

I saw you walking – I liked the way your body moved


I saw you shake your finger, pick your nose, hike your pants,

I saw you walk into me while you were clicking out important part-words – I saw you from a block away and I just let you do it. I wanted to think it might make a difference.


In case you ever thought nobody noticed…

I’m not the only one.

I saw you.



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