~September~

                                     September
     I trace the name under the grainy photo in the newspaper clipping. The clippings were
starting to turn yellow with age, almost seven years of age. I wondered at what caused her to run. I
trace the name that has engraved itself into my mind, Bridget Donnellan. I run my fingers along the
lines of her face. I delicately fold my clippings and place them into my wallet.

      The door opens and a flurry of colour enters along with the cold winter air. I take a sip of
my coffee as I watch the lady and child move over to the counter. The little girl looks over her
shoulder and her eyes settle on me, them she turns back.

�Can I have marrmellows in my cocoa, mama?�

�Of course you can, sweetling.�

     The little child looked over at me again. Her amber eyes widen and she watches me
watching her and her mother. Her small pinked gloved hand reaches for her mother�s jacket and
gave a tug.

      �Hummm, what is it Autumn?� The mother waited for the young cashier getting the coffee
and cocoa.

      �That man over there is watching us, mama,� Autumn whispered.

       I smile into my mug, overhearing every word.

      �Ummmhumm.� The mother finally had the two sturdy, steaming mugs in her hands and turns
toward her daughter. Autumn turned into a tiny, pretty, pink projectile and ran towards me. I take a
sharp intake of the warm fragrant air. She stops at the table, grips its edge and on her tip-toes
she stares at me over the top.

     I look up to see her mother�s reaction. My eyes widen and I whisper to myself, �Bridget.�
Her eyes widen so much like her daughters, and I feel more than see the caution and distrust that
radiates from her still pose. She licks her lips in a nervous gestures and whispers back at me, �You
know my name.�

     I take out my wallet and show her the clippings all yellowed with age. She reads them over
and ducks her head. She pushes back her hair and it swings back brushing her cheekbones. Her
light blonde hair was in stark contrast to the light brown hair that was mentioned in the clippings.

      �Why did you run?� When I asked before I thought of anything else. She straightened up to her
full height and squared her shoulders.

      �I didn�t run and that�s not my name anymore.�

      I�m sure my shocked bewilderment showed up on my face in a comical display since her
own face soften. �Can we sit down?� Before I could utter a word or move my head in
acknowledgment her daughter and herself were seated across from me in the cozy little booth.
Autumn was happily plucking her marshmallows out of her cocoa and I turn back to Bridget. She
sticks her hand out at me.

      �My name is September Payne.�

      �You left in September.�

       She nodded and smiled, �I have a story for you.� She picks up the ring that hung from her
necklace, the gold gleamed in the bright light. �The story of why I left centers all around this ring
and a quote.� She looks down at the ring in her palm and she�s still smiling but it�s different
somehow. �Do you know what the quote is?�
     I shake my head.
     �Why do we loved the pain in poetry so?� I watch the tears run down her cheeks.

      �It�s just a reflection of the human soul.�