She watches and waits. She is patient. Perhaps she sits beside you on the bus or brushes by you in the street. You pass her and you do not see her. But she sees you.
She watches you, assesses you, measures your worth. Will she like what she sees?
She is not a winning lottery ticket. Nor is she interested in reconciliation or forgiveness. This is not about second chances. This is not done out of love. She will not expect your thanks, or even your understanding. But that does not mean that she would not welcome them if they were offered.
She will come to you, stand before you. Then, with a touch that surprises you with its softness, she will reach out to you. For a few seconds she will hold your life in her hands. In this moment she is always careful, always delicate.
She will look at you calmly, her mind already made up. Then she will wipe clean the slate upon which you have written your life. When she has finished she will hold it up to the light, blow away any dust that remains, and polish the surface until it is clear. She will hand it back and then she will turn and walk away. Her part in this is done.
The rest, I’m afraid, is up to you.