The People That Walk By

Paintings of french countrysides adorned the walls, throned in ornate gold frames. But the most precious peices of art were tucked away in a humble little shoebox in the back of the closet. They wern't canvas on oil, but crayons and bright washable marker on construction paper. And although he hasn't seen them in more than two decades, he remembered every wavered line and messy scribble.

There was a grin she hid, tucked away in her cheek. A wink that danced in her iris, and a kiss in the angular lines of her cupid's bow.

His face was one of derision. Creases painted a perment frown at the corners of his mouth , but the way he figited with the shipped dradle in his hand was that of a child. And his usually vacant eyes lit up when he rambled about the intricacies of sourdough bread.