The first day I met Her I had been sentenced to washing dishes. She stepped out from behind an imposing shady tree, and offered me a powdered sugar smile through the hazy window. She and I were of the same age, height and proportions, and though we had duplicitous coloring and features, the resemblance ended there. As she stepped through our arcadia door, I stood in a stupor while she approached me.
Her footsteps were ever-so dainty, her feet in shoes looked like little tea cakes painted in pretty pastel icings. Her skin was a pale creamy hue, but shone with the luster of a pearl having just been gingerly extracted from its lush oyster bed. Her dress was simple – a plain green linen sheath – yet somehow its modesty seemed to illuminate her features more, as if she was meant to be planted in a flowerbed and the dress was simply her stem. Her hair seemed a sandy brown at first, but it had incandescence about it that only after studying her closely, could I tell was actually sparkles of red.
She took my place at the sink, her petite form seeming dramatic beside the large tall basin. Her fingers were not long, but they were well-shaped, with a shapely burst of fingernail at the tips. She scrubbed the pans with amazing efficiency, moving the dirty pile to the clean towels in a matter of minutes, speaking warmly to me as she worked. Her voice was grace personified – a lilting soprano tone with a peaceful quietness to it. When she spoke, the words scaled naturally, like the rhythm of the waves on the seashore, weaving back and forth, lulling me along. She laughed butterscotch, thick and sweet, with eyes scintillating, tossing her shiny mane.
She was exotic in no way, yet everything about her was purely exquisite. Her nose followed a precisely turned slope, her cheeks flushed in lovely humility at any sign of praise. She smelled like orange blossoms on a dewy morning, and stood with the thoughtlessly proud posture of a bride walking into her wedding chapel. Her face was not so remarkable in any one feature, as much as the culmination of all the features working together seemed to produce a masterfully crafted fabric with a dazzling sheen. Her smile was crooked, as though the angels that created her had stuck it on last minute as an afterthought.
She had a smattering of moles along her collarbone, which in a tiny streak of hopeful vanity, she fancied as the mark of noble blood. She danced like a kite in gentle breeze, and sung in her clear, strong voice the most poignant, melodic songs, when it was only her and I. Her foreign accents were mistakable as native, and she naturally wove the expressions into her conversations with me. She was innocent to the point of near naivety, but persistently inquisitive in an attempt to make herself as well-rounded as possible.
She had suffered much in her then-short life, and had a great empathy for others. When she was sad, her eyes turned into the icy blue of the arctic, and tiny tears would drip from the peaks of her cheeks soundlessly. She took the injuries that life placed on her and blew them off to the winds with gentle kisses, bidding them to send word to her soul mate that she sought him. She knew with unwavering certainty that her goodness, dedicated work, and patience would be rewarded in time, and her life would be improved somehow.
I wish I could tell you that she met that noble mate and that somehow, all of the injustices life had placed on her were remedied at last, but I cannot. She was not meant for the world we lived in, her delicate purity and effervescent grace being much too fragile. I catch a glimpse of her now and then, in a glossy car window as I walk my children into the grocery store, or laughing with my companions at a restaurant. And every now and then she sends me an acrylic painting, or writes me a poem, to let me know she still lives, still laughs, still dreams, and still sends her troubles off on the wings of butterflies.
Labels: Vignettes