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tales of something simple - atir: you know who you are

i believe

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

all types of chaos

atir: you know who you are

The first thing you would notice is her eyes.  Vibrant and stellar, they appear like wet emeralds or springtime grass.  Flecks of yellow spot across the surface when light hits them just the right way.   Their green and gold colors command attention, just like the rest of her.  It’s not necessarily her beauty, although natural, that dominates the aura of a room when she enters it.  It’s the sound of her shoes that walk heavily with her.  She wears a women’s size eight, but wears them like a men’s twelve.  Her steps are loud and lazy, stomping and obnoxious at times; she makes her presence more than known.  It’s the sound of her clanging bracelets, too many metals to name, creeping halfway up her forearms that demand a glance.   The nail polish on her fingernails is often ten different colors.  With stripes.  Dots.  Unidentifiable blobs.  Her clothes are inside out, sometimes backwards, depending on her mood.  She smirks when an unknowing stranger taps her on the shoulder and asks her if she knows.  Of course she knows.  She always knows.

She knows exactly the right moments to be human.  She realizes when a hug is necessary and times where “I’m sorry” should silently be implied.  She listens, not just with the ear but with the soul.  She recognizes when it’s time to stop talking and go to sleep.  She doesn’t let people in very easily.  She can make it feel better even when it’s not.    She says she doesn’t care what other people think about her.  I think she’s right.

I know more about her than she’d like to admit.  For instance, I know her parents put her up for adoption for a week when she was an infant, and then changed their mind.  She’s afraid of fireworks because when she was two years old her father left her in his car on the Fourth of July and never even heard her scream.  She hates living in this town.  She says she’ll never have children, and I know it’s because she’s afraid she’ll be like her mother.

But if you heard her laugh, her loud and squeaky laugh…you would disagree.  If you ever experience the way in which she knows how to erase wet tear drops as fast as they fall or cause a smile to spill onto someone’s cheeks, you would see.  You would see someone who knows what it means to be lonely and what it means to get hurt and to heal.  The definition of a single child who turned out to be one of the most compassionate and understanding people I have ever encountered.  She couldn’t be farther from her fear.

Regardless of DNA, she’s taught me about sisterhood.  She’s shown me what it means to take each day as it comes my way.  I know that there will be a day when she packs up her box of clothes that she has borrowed of mine, the jewelry she’s stolen from my dresser, the mixed CD’s and sloppy “just because” cards I’ve slipped in her purse over a clear blur of ten years.  There will be a day when I see her leave my driveway and know she won’t come back.  And for that last time I will have one image burned into my brain: her ever-changing eyes, and the scars that they hide.

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