Girls

2005

There is a mysterious girl in this class. She sits in the front, always. Her hair is mouse brown and she parts it in the middle 'til it reaches her forehead where unstyled bangs fall exactly to the top of her eyebrows.

Her eyes are ever downcast, even when she looks toward the overhead her eyes appear lowered. She has a cute little nose, well-defined cheekbones that sit high on her taut face, and lips that are ever-pursed. I've been sitting across from her for two months, twice weekly for two hours and I've yet to see her smile.

Every day she wears shirts with modest necklines, jeans, and hiking boots that clearly have yet to be hiked in.

I'm baffled by her unwavering attention for Washington State and local politics. I imagine her poring over the reading the night before class. I imagine she took great concern in studying for the midterm, though the questions were handed out in the days prior to the exam. No, she's not so mysterious. I'm usually right about these things.

She's pretty.

2006

In Ireland, you remember, we stopped at a small roadside café as we were tooling toward Galway. A twenty-something, full-figured, busty woman made us fried chicken. Ebony hair fell to her shoulders in ringlets that framed the creamy complexion of her face. As she cooked our lunch she chatted en brogue with an old man, presumably a resident of this small town. Her laughter was ebullient as she made her way around the little kitchen of the tiny café.

When we got back to the car John sighed, smiled, and said, "That was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

That moment I learned my brother is so dear.

2007

There's a girl I've seen about town twice now. The first time I saw her was early morning (7:30 am) on a sunny July day. I was on the bus, which waited for a stoplight. On the opposite side of the street a small crowd waited for the crosswalk. One young woman stood among them. She had headphones on and she was dancing in place. She was short- maybe 5'3"- and round as an apple. Her skin was a caramel brown and her hair stood out six inches in all directions, all afroed but the front section, which was held down with a bright blue barrette. She danced un-self-consciously and deliberately. The movements of her short arms were more furtive than graceful, but stylish still. I watched her intently in the moments until the light changed, then she crossed the street with the crowd and my bus moved along to infinitely more stoplights.

I saw her again a few days- or maybe it was weeks- later. I was walking around Greenlake with a friend on a warm evening. Ahead of us a girl on roller skates moved in rhythm, slower than an old woman with a walker. Long camo shorts covered her legs and an olive green tank top hugged the many curves of her torso. A bandana flattened her rebellious hair. Her arms swished alternately up and down in front of her chest. One knee would dip in front of her, and her head would loll to look at the ground, then she'd straighten her leg and her face would pop up. The other knee would drop with her body, her spirit momentarily prostrate. Up she'd come again, then her arms would straighten out at her sides and she'd spin slowly all the way around.

"That girl sure marches to her own beat," my companion observed.

2007

I wish I were an artist. I wish that at age 16 I'd begun weaving a tapestry on a loom to express my relationship with God. At 16, those first threads would express conviction, adoration. They'd tuck neatly in and out of each other. The color-scheme would be pleasant and orderly. At 19, 20, the yarn would fray, showing growing doubt and concern. At 21 the tapestry would be gray with total disbelief, anguish.

Now my weaving would be bright and colorful, a visceral representation of my understanding of harmony and awe at the seemingly perfect symbiotic relationships between things, people.

Oh! To be a modern-day Penelope. Instead I fill these little paper pages with self-serving thoughts. How lovely to store your secrets in knots of thread.