He caught my eye. By purposeful accident, he had my attention. His cheeks were dotted with freckles and his crooked smile enticed me. He had the kind of eyes that drew you in─the kind you knew saw deep into your soul. His voice was a raspy silk that snapped me from anywhere to him. Even in his strength, his touch was gentle. He was home to me. There was no place I felt safer. No place I felt that I believed that I belonged more than next to him. The warmth I felt when I was with him was something I could bathe in. Until one day I realized that the water had turned icy. His touch was more like a hammer. It was utter silence in my presence. He became distant─his eyes now empty with disgrace. I was homeless.
When he looked at her, you knew that was a face he loved. His eyes brightened and his mouth turned up on either side.
When I am an old woman I shall wear lilac
With a straw hat that draws attention to me. And I shall spend my pension on wine and getaways And exorbitant presents for the grandchildren, leaving us with only bread for a week or two I shall swing on the front porch when I tire And ask too many questions at the grocery market And play frisbee with the dog And make up for the mundane of my youth. I shall go to couples’ dance lessons And eat as much cake as I please And learn to sign. A tragedy has hit the small rural town in Indiana. Too small to pinpoint on most maps, but never small enough for tragedy. These are the places that people say, “Nothing bad ever happens here.” No, no we’re not big enough for those sorts of problems. As we now have grown to learn: evil knows no boundaries.
Evil doesn’t care if you’re thirteen and ride your bicycle to school. Evil doesn’t care when the last time you told your mom you loved her was. Evil doesn’t care if it’s two in the morning or two in the afternoon. Evil doesn’t care. Evil doesn’t care. Evil doesn’t care. The morning light glints off the yellow wallpaper. I brush the sand out of my eyes as he, even in morning breath, plants one on me. We sing and dance around the kitchen only stopping to flip the bread toasting on the stovetop. The smell of burnt toast roams the house but we eat uncaring anyway.
In kindergarten, I thought love was the cute boy in my class whom I avoided eye contact with at all costs. The one whom behind behind closed doors I called "hubba hubba".
In second grade, I thought love was my best friend's goofy twin. The one who forced me to play toy tractors with him. In fourth grade, I thought love was my teammate in the county's rec soccer league. The one who broke my premature heart a few times too many. In my freshman year, I thought love was the class clown who picked on me in Algebra. The one who kissed me first. In my senior summer, I realized love was the one who came out of nowhere. The one I call my first love. Because before him, I never really knew what love truly was. She began to understand what it was. She exuded happiness and laughter around others but darkness crept in when she found herself alone. She understands the expression much more now because it's more than an expression . . . it's a feeling.
Her words oozed from her mind. Coming at her in all varying directions at randomized times. It took all she had to get them down before they floated away.
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Ariel Wolfeself-proclaimed writersomewhat avid reader
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