I had the perfect beginning for this, but it’s been lost. Lost, deep in to the dark recesses of my ever reeling mind. Purpose? This is mostly for me. I hope that I find a relief of grief in the telling. This is not just my story, no, it’s something much bigger. Much bigger than even I could imagine. Lives and stories intertwined. Hope and grief intermingled. You might think that this story would start with that October day--and really, that’s when things started downhill.--but this began long before. Before me, before her, before anything, really.
She was beautiful. The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and that’s not a statement made in hyperbole. Dark hair--nearly black, hazel eyes--nearly yellow. She was slender and tan. Her smile was gentle, as was her manner. You might overlook her, for her quiet spirit did not attract attention. Appearances, as time has proven, are usually deceiving. She was quiet, yes, but like most introverts, she had a bold streak hiding underneath her unassuming demeanor. She was an artist at heart: a true visionary of the creative. Above all else, she loved. And she never gave up hope. Not ever. I could continue to describe her, but that would steal from the story. Her true character shall unfold in the words that follow hence. For this story is not mine. It is hers.
I'm not sure yet where I'm going with this, but I'm rather fond of it.
I'm so sleepy.
As a side note, I'm entering this photo in this photo challenge.