She made me grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches, and fed me lines and lies and fairy tales, and romances and sexual tension, and tragedy upon tragedy with bloodshed, miseries, and histories, and sweet music, and dancing with beautiful instruments, in all her many wrinkles and scars, within and without the fabric of time. She loved me dearly once, long long long ago, and gave me a temporary home to call my own for awhile when no where felt like home and no one saw my true inner smile, with my toes in wet sand, and a beach with the tide that hadn’t come in, waves crashing too for miles, echoing through Mamore Gap and the castles, strumming to the tune of romantic ideals and poems and dramas long lost and forgotten. Her glories and sad stories, her roaming heather, her love for nature, her sweet naivete and surrender, to all that was pure. She was me once, one summer on a land pure green it could have been gold. I see her sometimes in a recent picture in every reflection deep staring into a mirror and there I am underneath all this make-up covered exterior somewhere in between the girl that is and the girl that had been forever lost and forever gone and forever always called into existence immortal, transposed in time called up when I simply want to remember myself as I once was sometimes.
Her glories and sad stories, her roaming heather, her love for nature, her sweet naivete and surrender, to all that was pure.