Something dearly missed

It was a scenery like all others had been. It was known and beloved and already witnessed by the old eyes of the woman about a million times while she stood by the street across the great Augustusbrücke. Yes, she had seen this place in all its glory and defeat. And now it was getting late once more and the evening had given rise to the faceless masses of night wanderers and faintly recognizable figures that walked in between the light of an ending day and the darkness of the coming night. It was a prestigious square, once in historic times, now only anymore for the unknowing eyes of the masses of tourists that washed over its burned and beaten stones. The woman, a rather slender figure, had pushed her old body to how far it was able to go without rest. Aching in pain from slow movement, her breath vanished as she had reached the southern end of the bridge. Dresden looked fine at night, she thought as the waters of the Elbe rushed passed the stones under her feet. The woman wore a yellow jacket and a brown hat. She once had been a beauty, once had been on portraits, once had traveled the world, once had been loved and only once loved herself. And he was long gone. Taken by the cruelty of lucky life. After travels and adventures that nobody wanted to hear from, she resettled where it all had begun. But not where she came from. This old lady, Katherina might have been her name, wasn’t from here. She was just like so many millions of others neither feeling at home nor wanted here.

But now she came to the stairs and sat on the lavishly decorated stones of the opera building just across the square. It had taken her a minute to arrive there, and she would remain there for more than one. It was all she needed now and all she would receive. Yes, she knew the scenery. She knew the streets and squares and bridges of the city once called the Florence on the Elbe. She knew them like a book that lay read and used on her shelf somewhere in the tiny apartment that was so high up in the concrete towers, children of the 70s and the iron curtains owners. She knew that book and that little apartment so well. Too well to ever part from it again. She was sure. The moon finally rose behind the stones of the Frauenkirche which were painted gold by the artificial light, installed to retrieve the beauty lost in the fire. She now had just a couple more moments before she would have to go back. A couple more moments to feel again like life gave you just a bit of its rare and costly and warming attention. Something without a price somebody like her could pay. Something that you once had but was slowly taken from you with a saddening indifference. Something dearly missed.