she was beautiful June 15, 2007

she stood there. right in front of the mirror. stroking her hair. stroking it gently. enjoying the company of her beauty. the mirror would smile. at her silly act. this was her routine. she’d do this everyday. and the hair would bounce back everytime she played with it. and she seemed so proud of herself. after an hour or so, she’d start over and enjoy it even more. she’d stare at herself over and over. admire her smile. eyelashes. soft skin. beauty divine. a lonely pearl necklace dangled on her thin neck. accenting it even more. and her so proportionally carved out body. could she be any better. she’d refuse to wear anything. she feared that cotton would scratch her skin and silk would be too heavy. that unclothed body was like that of an angels. all she lacked was a pair of wings and a golden harp by her side. and she’d sing with her lovely voice. soft like no other. a melodic angel. and her white skin would glow. lighting up the dark room where she sat all day. rarely she would glance out the only window in the room. and watch slow seagulls fly across the shore. they always seemed hungry and never satisfied with fishes. she would listen carefully for unusual sounds that the ocean sometimes made when the moon’s gravity would pull the water up. above the sand lines. but she never knew what made those seagulls fly or the ocean sing. and she sat there. alone. but she was comforted by her own self. a kind old man would occasionally visit her there. and she’d be thrilled. he was very old and kind. they would dine together sometimes. he never spoke a single word. and all she’d do was continue to hum and watch him curiously. after the first few visits they got along very well and had become the best of friends. she had started to enjoy his silent presence. after he left she’d sit there again on her own. with her diary. a fountain pen. and a bunch of old photographs. laminated and kept neatly in the lower compartments of the grooming table. this table and a nice cozy bed which was never used, were the only furnitures in there. she’d sometimes write about the way she felt, but soon she’d end up writing the same things she wrote almost everyday. she’d write about a small girl. and other times she’d write an agonizing story of a young man who was brutally killed in front of his 7 year old daughter. she never knew why she’d write such stories, but she would be surprised everyday to find those same two stories written over and over in that book. and then she’d read it again. and smile in a confused way. but that was a perfect smile. the best in this room. the best in this home. the home for invalids. beautiful she was. so beautiful it makes me cry.