Her Name

She has many names. Her name is a soft, flighty word she can say in a breath as she gazes with wide eyes at the person standing there. Her hair is in her face again, and she feels awkward. Still, she wants to know what it is they have to say. Do they care to know her? Would she care to know them?
It’s a spinning on toe shoes name, very much alive and graceful. One that no one stops to watch, unless they're willing to look for her. She always speaks in truth, moves in truth, and lives in her mind. No one else knows what great buildings tower there.
She is an invisible wisp of air that no one quite remembers once it’s gone. She is gray and sad and desolate as that moor her name came from. A small, and delicate something that is like to pass away at any moment. Can you recall the sweet relief you felt at seeing such a small thing alive in such a great, cold world? But that was long ago.
Her eyes speak of days of age, worn like an old photo until the sun turns to pure gold and you can hear as Pan, sitting on an old rock wall, plays his flute and no mind to you. Sweet, crisp, golden fall days, with the scent of apple on the air. Rich, juicy, fat, purple grape days. Peaceful, gray, spring days, when the sky finds relief in tears and tries to help you find a way away from yours. Everything is changing, always. The wind rejoices, and dances round, singing softly, telling you that there is not enough color in your cheeks. The trees stretch out their fingers and drip it all over you. We have found our life and joy, now you take some.
There is a melody in her name. A great, sweeping chorus from one tiny voice. A song of curiosity and wonder, hope, regret, and love. She will love you, forgive you always, even if you don’t ask, but if you do, she will give you all her heart. She will put her hand in yours and smile. She will trust you, even if you lie. Give you second chances. Try to have faith in your actions.
But she won’t let you break her. Delicate, yes, but clear and lasting, like a memory. Such dreams she spins, like a tapestry, of love and nobility, perseverance, victory over evil. The very best of man. She believes these things. Every moment of her life becomes another of someone else’s. Her soul is in those books, and songs. It is a history. It is hers. Those people are her heart. She can’t doubt them, can’t fail them. They must have their moment, too.
And, yet, she is another girl, very different, but true as the first. Not a girl spun of glass, about to shatter in the silence of her loneliness. The flowery one, with a ready laugh, a sharp wit, and a deep affection for the things around her. Loves the absurd in everyone, and hopes you will forgive her faults as well. Her hair is in her face again, and she feels awkward. She is the curious and creative one, with a brush, a pen, a song, a book. Wide-eyed, artistic, ready to do something new. She sings. She quotes. She annoys everyone around her. She is her own relief from herself.
How hard she tries not to offend! Rarely voices her opinion in the fear that you will disagree. She is amazed to find she can be optimistic. She wants to help you cry and then forget about it. Remember the important things. She wants you to forgive, find truth and happiness. She blows a kiss and wishes you good luck. Tells you it will be better tomorrow. Smiles no matter what. She is living in her mind, and spinning on toe shoes, very much alive and graceful, wondering if you will stop and watch.