Misfortune

The old woman dragged her rucksack behind her. With each step, she released a soft groan, the kind that is unassuming and courteous. As she shuffled along you could see her soft, grey hair slowing falling from the bun she had so meticulously constructed. She was hard to spot, being only one of many, but still, it was her I watched as the mass of people staggered along. A young man unintentionally bumped her as he tried to locate his family, and did not notice that he was what finally uncreated her delicate bun of hair. As the soft strands fell about her face, she seemed to slow slightly. Almost as if she was considering a stop, so that she might refashion her hair.