She was replete with antonyms that would juxtapose most beautifully. Rivers flowing in opposite directions. Patience, impatience, sanity, insanity; they all ran about her being without colliding.
Sometimes, at night, when the full moon would pour its milk down a loner’s window, she would count stars and pray for him. She was free-spirited. She still is. It’s just that, well, you don’t see her dancing in the forest or laughing in crowds anymore. You don’t see her red scarf silk its way through the street. You don’t see her at all.
A bird was shot in its left wing. A butterfly was chased away. A little girl was hurt in the playground. Bereft illustrations painted across the canvas of one’s mind. She was them all. And then she was none.
I often look for her these days. They say she died in some carnival. You can hear her laughter on the merry-go-round. You can see her ghost in mirrors.