Recognition

At the entrance to the market in Ljubljana an old woman
has settled herself on the pavement, a black and white kitten
on her lap, aluminum cane by her side.

She holds a stringed instrument made of wood. There are spaces
for eight strings but only one is attached. The woman saws at it
with a curved bow, making a small discordant sound.

The belly of the instrument is papered with pictures,
Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, the Pope, and the head shot
of a young girl, perhaps her daughter, with the heavy-lidded eyes

and prominent nose that I had when I was twelve.
Instead of walking past the old woman, I stop and drop some coins
in the box by her side, hold up my camera, make hand gestures

asking her permission for a photograph. As I snap the picture she smiles,
perhaps in recognition of my familiar features or the shared
realization that now I know how I will look, when I am an old woman.