Some people have it: that look - a stare - like you’re
meeting the eyes of God. Like you’ve found a home that you never knew.
There’s some dark twinkle to them like the richness of good
coconut milk or a well done forest portrait underpainted with true phylo blue. They smell like reality’s damp dusk and
are layered with the special, sandy-yellow flecks of a sobering secret.
Their smiles strike like the pitch of perfect, sad violin
that you never knew you appreciated; their touch draws an instinctual reaction
of ease like one feels to a well-risen loaf of bread. A mellow walk with them is contentment and challege, radical
and purifying.
Some people have it. They are very, very, very, very few but
not obsolete - I must cling to this belief. I must resist the nag that they are blended so far into a
background of budding vines, swimming alone in a wild oblivion, or caught up in
the fuzz of city walls…I must never admit that they will not find their way
from between mildewed, country bathroom stalls to meet my eyes, someday.
They with the God stare, they cannot be so high up that I
cannot find them; I’ll use the patient dexterity needed in twisting a
clementine off the tree; I’ll whisper like I would to a lounging cat; I’ll lay
down in the middle of the road and tar myself over if I have to, to hold onto
the belief that they exist, and that we will meet someday.
