Stationary moment

Sometimes I envision my life like a painting. A stationary moment captured in time within a mix of oil and pigment upon butter cream canvas. Today I saw my off balance wagon, me perched precariously atop the driver's box, and the vast expanse of plains and sky stretching to every corner. In my painting, my artist painted me with deep colors, layer upon layer of rich hues that set me sharp against the volume of grass and pale blue. I was looking ahead, and behind me were people. Every shape and kind of person imaginable. But my artist had painted them with a soft opaque mist, so that features were not as distinguishable. Now and again a smile was visible, or a hand. Something of indication, expression. They were distinguished, but softly faded. They were my family, my friends, my life until now. In front of me, the landscape wavered with growing severity. As if heat rose from a parched earth, much like in the desert. Perhaps the uncertainty of future? For even in my imagination I could not foresee what might be coming.


I wondered if my artist found me plain or pleasant to look upon, for I could not tell with my own critical eye. I was once told I was plain in the face. I later learned to discard it, but at the time it rocked my teenage heart. The creek spilled up her secrets one day, reflected in brilliant light off the surface or watery ripples. I was tall, taller than Edda. Taller than Yama. But thankfully not taller than most men. My hair was long, trailing in wispy fingertips against the backs of my thighs and uninterrupted in a smooth sheen of ebony. Or so it would seem. But in the warmth of the summer, little wisps of mahogany and even a pale chestnut would betray it's true spectrum. Much like my eyes. They seem to have no color, the blackness taking over the roundness and leaving a reflection in their place. But within their depths, flecks of deep chocolate and syrupy maple swim in the charcoal. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, Yama told me. Did my beholder see strong features, harsh lines, less than supple curves or gently sculpted planes and lithe stature?


It had bothered me at one time. Especially when I found out that Griff would not return. At least not that year. Busy with an apprenticeship, taking his place among the men of his city, and ...much to my hearts sad breaking...intended to companion a girl during the hottest few hands of the year. It had been only a kiss, but I had watered it and nurtured it into something so much more. So much ...more. Would love be anything like that first crush?