Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Because there are some things in life that are simply without explanation, like the fragility in her eyes that I had noticed when I first met her even though she had tried to hide it by laughing.
Now I watch her tremble in broken gasps and deep breaths after her mother's funeral, apologetic for all the love she never got to, or never dared to express.
I watch as that unspent love gathers uncontrollably in the corners of her eyes and spills down her flushed cheeks.
I watch as she frantically shakes her head and wipes it away, trying to compose herself as if she fears being seen in such vulnerability.
I watch as she tries to be strong, and even though I know that it must hurt, I cannot help but admire her.
Later I hear her talking to her late mother's friends and I notice how she tends to replace the word 'grief' with 'unshared love'. If she were to be asked why, I know what she would say.
"I guess it's because [calling it the love I never got to share makes it less of a burden]."
I suppose she's right.
[What is love if not grief persevering?]
I remember the shade of fragility I had noticed in the shadow of her smile and somewhere behind the sparkle of her eyes, and as time passes, I would come to learn that that is what she resents showing.
She reminds me of a lily.
I see the flowers that grow in the various cracks of her soul.
I see them cover the parts that are more broken than she lets on.
And her friends, they are the gardeners who water and trim the plants while she tells them stories to make them laugh, perhaps to distract them from the ugliness that resides below those flowers, hoping they miss several stray thorns or wilted lilies because what is beauty without a little chaos?
When she looks into the mirror, all I hope is that she can spare herself a little kindness.