"It’s always different," Marek complained. "That’s the problem. I’m trying to get back to how it was."
One evening, an old woman sat on the bench beside him. She was humming a melody that sounded vaguely familiar—a song by that set Szymborska’s poem to music. nic_dwa_razy_w_szymborska
Marek lived his life as if he were waiting for a replay. He would sit by the same bend of the Vistula River every Tuesday, hoping to feel the exact same rush of peace he had felt one summer afternoon years ago. He wore the same wool coat, brought the same thermos of bitter coffee, and tried to think the same thoughts. "It’s always different," Marek complained
He realized he had been treated his life like a movie he was trying to rewind, rather than a performance happening in real-time. He took a sip of his coffee. It was hotter than usual, and the wind had a sharp, citrusy scent he hadn't noticed before. It wasn't the peace of that old summer afternoon, but it was a new kind of quiet—a sharp, waking clarity. She was humming a melody that sounded vaguely
