The Swirl of Tazman 5

In another land during another time that seemed, at once, lifetimes ago and at the same time freshly experienced, there lived a girl. Another girl.

Perhaps a very strange, enchanted girl. To some. But to most, well, they could tell that enchanted or not strange or not, she was smart. She was aware. She appeared to be ready (if not prepared) for the world. Her athletic build (she had nothing to do with it, really) gave off that vibe. Her energy a controlled simmer. Perhaps the only thing that screamed STRANGE! or WILD! was her red hair. It wasn’t the color that was the issue, so much. It was the hair itself: thick, tangled, an absolute protest on the top of her head with strands that boiled over and spread themselves out into jazz hands.

And a 5, 6, 7, 8!

As if she was perpetually in a rush even when she stood perfectly still.

People looked. People stared. A few commented.

There were those who knew her who remarked on her bearing. Others who said that her face was pleasing to the eye. Still others, that she was very pretty, even beautiful. And others more, that she was cute and would do well in a crowd.

She couldn’t help but notice they stayed in the lane of evaluating appearance. (They noticed their lane as well and adhered to the rules of that road.)

And so she met their comments with a polite smile, never uttering a word in reply. Nice, or not, or shrug inducing to hear, or not. Not a word in response. It’s not that she wasn’t polite. She was. It’s just that words escaped her. Not that she didn’t try to use them. She did. She just failed repeatedly.

Maybe that’s why my hair perpetually looks a mess, she would think in the often busy forefront of her mind. All this work to try to chase words down. Chase them down, chase them down, chase them down. Right into the ground. Even when she stood placidly still, chasing hard core after them. And they (the words that is) picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and walked right on past her with utter indifference.

She learned to live out loud in silence and instinctively began collecting scraps of meaning from various experiences. Maybe if she held this letter, that photo, this album, that book, this scarf, that drawing, this phone, that purse long enough. Maybe if she studied every inch of its fiber. Maybe she would be heard. Her feelings would be known.

The days of ill health were hard enough to bear. No one imagines that a young girl who is cute, maybe very pretty, maybe even beautiful with a shock of red hair and an athletic build that for all the world looks ready (if no where near prepared) for life could fall on days of poor health. But she can. And she does. And she gets through it. And it’s a journey that’s hard enough. But harder still are the unbearable days of loss, and in the days and years upon years upon years before that, the strangely enough, enchantedly enough unbearable lightness of being from the complete bliss she shared with her true love, her soul mate, her forever and ever before he passed to another world in another time along another dimension.

There simply are no words to describe where her heart has reached, extended so far outside of her own body, connected and intertwined so perfectly with his. How very very incalculably far it has stretched into that other world in that other time and that other dimension. There’s no way to count. There’s no way to measure. There are no words.

Just a polite smile in the world of appearances and a shock of red hair in wild protest at the top of her head and in the busy forefront of her mind.

NaNoWriMo2021 word count (not including this notation): 653 words, for a total to date of 3,923 words.

Published by Michele Hyacinth

A child in the wild blue yonder...full blooded woman with the power just to be. ~ John Haitt

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