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.
"It’s always different," Marek complained. "That’s the problem. I’m trying to get back to how it was."
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 different today," she said, nodding toward the water. nic_dwa_razy_w_szymborska
Marek looked at her. He thought of the poem’s lines: “No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kiss.”
