the first thing I notice about her
is her hair.
Long, lustrous black
like I always pretended I had,
it flows like liquid silk over her shoulders.
The second thing I notice
is her smile.
a worn book beckoning to be read
I won't hurt you
I will love you
and yet, a sparkle of fun
of a child not forgot.
The third thing I notice
are her hands.
Long, elegant, delicate fingers
she gestures softly as she speaks
as if painting the air.
She has not touched me,
but I imagine her hands are warm
like a summer evening
and smooth as sanded stone.
She says her name is Ellie,
and as I get to know her,
I realize her hair
is beautiful from all the wisdom that emanates
from her head,
and I love the way it sways like beach caressing waves
when she laughs.
I realize her smile
is like a beacon in the dark,
a light house guiding ships away from sharp rocks,
a spot to grasp while the world spins.
I realize her hands
are the hands of a writer,
of a friend,
of a mother.
They are as strong and warm as I believed
as she squeezes my fingers,
rubs my back
reminding me I am capable of every thing
and that this too shall pass.
To her, I was sometimes girl, sometimes woman,
sometimes lovely, and sometimes hurtful,
sometimes sweet, and sometimes sour,
sometimes beautiful, and sometimes a disaster,
but always loved, always cared for, always absorbing all the words
she bestowed and shared with me.
To me, she is always wonderful,
always kind, always gentle, always wise,
always caring, always giving, always being