~ An anonymous little girl
Such a sweet, profound innocence… All day long, I’ve been thinking about what to say. This is a simple poem. It’s old…it was written by a young child…a child who is now an adult, living with her own choices.
She remembered every detail of the exact moment of something very important to her. That’s what writer’s do, you know. I don’t think we’re very good at remembering to take out the garbage, or to do the laundry, or put oil in the car every three months. But ask us to recall the textures, smells, sights that would otherwise go unseen and ignored… we’ve got you covered.
Forget the birthday presents at a party, what about the smile of the grandmother who everyone knew wouldn’t be there the year after? The way she smelled, every breath she took as she watched you blow out your candles….how her silvery once-blond hair still held the bounce of curl that was magically undefiled by age.
Never mind the wedding pictures that hang on the wall in a mosaic display going up the steps to the bedroom. Give me the sound of the keys, how they jingled when he got them out of his coat pocket, that first time he took her out on a date – how she knew he wanted to treat her right, because he had made sure the interior of his car was clean, and smelled like leather, even though his seats were covered in cloth.
Instead of the “bling” you choose to wear out on the town, we’ll notice the remarkable way that your square chin, and strikingly high cheekbones gives your face a regal, timeless beauty.
A writer speaks with their heart, even if not everyone reads the words. That’s OK….because sometimes, the message is between the lines.