anomaly, I stick out like a sore thumb yet blend
into the background as if I wasn't even there.
From all (all?) appearances I am another,
normal—what is normal?—student,
rushing around campus. Look closer. You might
see the well worn wedding ring on
my finger, the darker circles under my eyes. In
my bag, with the notebook and
pens are a Mr. Men book and a baby's hat. Behind
the pram, I don't even
register as a person amongst students who all
assume they wouldn't know anyone
with a child, although we may sit next to each
other in lectures the next day.
The same age—give or take a year or two in some
cases—the same city, the same
course, same lectures, teachers. The same parks.
Houses… On different roads.