You are a petite woman, blue collared blouse–no sleeves–blue jeans and strikingly sharp blue eyes. Your hair, dark and curled, was tied back, to allow you free roam, jotting notes on a flip-back spiral notebook. In Foley Square, watching the Granny Peace Brigade chant and sing, I stood nearby, my notebook and pen suddenly clumsy and ridiculous in hand, and asked your name, but I’m not sure you heard me, and fearing rejection, I was too embarrassed to ask again.
If you see this, call me. We’ll talk Cronkite and Woodward and eat fruit salad and never look back. (Actually email us: email@example.com, and we’ll connect you!)