Rosa.

I wrote the following ten years ago, when I met an exquisite artist named Rosa. Her sister had taken her life in the same clinic I had been put into at fourteen. I may have known her.

 

Tortoiseshell tresses slide down her shoulders.

Ground sunshine irradiated from her soulful eyes.

Her voice is a feather, floating through the ether as a dream.

Rosa is a mermaid or Undine;

A fey creature flicking the contents of fountains and springs,

Quenching our very hearts.

In her gentle  hands she holds coral in rich hues of garnet and peach.

As she catalogues history and restores houses, Rosa restores my faith in the endearing strength of sweetness.

I reflect on delicate lace work built of iron, which shall never break.

When I speak to sister Rosa, it is akin to whispering the contents of my heart to an ephemeral cloud.

A cloud which is fine, like gossamer, and is able to reach in and touch my soul with an opaque love.

Rosa, our beautiful rose, grafted from a past which was both sweet and tumultuous.

She is a wondrous combination of rubies and roses, lemons and lavender.

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