at my son. Two matchbox cars, the victims of play, caked with sand and clay lie at my feet. Slowly she stops, speaks in rushed German while wearing a half smile, half frown. She says something about a street. It takes me a socially unacceptable amount of time to answer. She repeats herself and then yells in German, "Do you not understand me?" I shake my head and whisper, "Es tut mir leid." She leaves me. Three times she looks back, full frown. Much too late, I realize that she was complaining about the need of a crosswalk at the intersection. My son stands. Intertwined, we cross the street, turn left, and head for home.
"Friedhof's Remorse" Now Available for Purchase
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posted by Reluctant Nomad at 
Ignore my eamil about this post-obviously, question answered. Still lovely though.