Time Slipping by

What would she say, this mirage of my younger self,  to my older self,  as she rushed by peering at our future selves in the garden lunching so contentedly?  

She,  such a confident stride of swagger and purpose, her movement focused on speed, a rose-colored flash of brisk pace from one end of the gallery to the other, checking this museum off the endless list of must-sees, to do's, can't misses.    Would she even notice the couple tucked in the small break in the trees, sitting together on that small patio in the garden surrounded by red lanterns, leisurely lunching?  Would she even see it? 

Would she have used the photographer's eye, sizing up the composition and arrangement of color and movement, patiently waiting for the breeze to blow the leaves just so?

Or would her mind be fixed on the mental list that always ran in her head of calendars and meetings, shoulds and shouldn't 's?  Would she even notice that time is slipping preciously, irreplaceably by?  

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