Deep asleep, counting an orchard of orange orchids instead of sheep, I saw her on the red carpet at a fundraiser for feeding foreign children. In her own world she paid me no mind, like the paparazzi guys hollering the names of Hollywood starlets from behind the roped-red line. She stood tall on a perfect pair of toned stilts that stretched long, like an ocean liner layed out across the surface of a still sea. Her hair played in a kind breeze, like palm leaves. Face blushed bright with beauty, yet she nervously shifted in her skin every few seconds as if she didn't belong in the body in which God chose for her to live. As if being herself was a little too much to handle, which aged her hands, old and wrinkled, tired from a short life spent trying to get the handle.
I couldn't help but get lost in her language. My world paused and put on hold. I wanted to jump behind the wheels of her life, take control of her fight and guide her away from whatever pain was driving her insane. My eyes, target locked on her every insecureness, noticed that she looked down when she walked as if she didn't trust her own steps. An etiquette I would hope to help her correct by coaching her on how to walk with more faith.
A random wind suddenly lifted her dress, like teenage perverts horny to see underneath, but she quickly nailed it down, like a circus tent, making sure to never expose any of the tricks and clowns who juggled her emotions and never committed with focus when asked to walk the tight line with her, causing show after show to always end with a bad review.
But as she nears the end of the depress line, I will be there to take her by the hand, to help chaperone the young lady, sad and weak, into the strong and happy woman she is meant to be.
Photo Model: Arlette Daluz
