She follows her children around the playground, and offers water to them. She inhales the spring air, and calls out sharply as her youngest climbs too high.
The other women listen to her.
They listen to her one-sided conversations. They note the way her words sound different.
The way her words rise, fall and shift. The slightly different syllable stress. Different vowels.
The different phrases. Intonation.
She is from somewhere else, far away.
The other women wonder where she is from, but they do not ask her.
They also have children to follow, and are busy. Engaging, suggesting, empathising with one another. Cooing. Laughing.
Perhaps they feel too shy to ask her, or embarrassed that they don't recognise her accent.
They stop wondering, and resume their chatting.
I used to be amongst those other women.
I am the one they observe.