Doe eyes open wider than seems possible, portals into the unabashed, uncomplicated love that leaves her heart and courses through each of her cells, she walks through the world unbothered by the maelstrom that surrounds. Her aura precedes her, a molecular harbinger of the soul-quenching joy that she brings into each room she enters. She is human, but only out of convenience, for the sake of this moment in time, as an exemplar, as an aspiration. Suspecting her power, she tests its bounds, coyly, with mirth. When she is questioned, she does not feel the need to respond, a superseding wisdom far ahead of her years, which are at once natal and eternal. Purity is its own answer.
Her embrace alters the lives of those it encircles, her smile stops a tractor-trailer in its tracks, one raise of her eyebrow can raise or level a mountain, as she desires. Rivers thaw at her gaze. She is Chuck Norris’ daughter and also his mother. Timeless and of the moment, she chortles at the notion that the petty concerns of daily living matter outside of the twenty-four hours in which they are experienced. Informed by the past and confident in the future, she is somehow always the present, in this second, and this one, and the next.
Her enemies spew their venom, enraged by the placidity with which she receives their taunts. Violence and vitriol and deceit phase her not, although she sheds waterfalls of tears for their sources as she is empathy, as she is placidity, as she is the wellspring of all this is good and gentle. She knows that their hate is borne, in most cases, not of evil, but of misunderstanding, of hurt, of circumstance, of the absence of love, hate’s necessary and patient twin.
She is the warmth that melts the hardened heart, she is the saint that blesses rude strangers. Endlessly welcoming, she overlooks the detritus left by the visitors that dwell in her home, houseguests seeking reprieve in her abode, but who take for granted the hospitality, who take Instagram snapshots of their visit as virtue signaling, but whose displays of affection are counterfeit. She knows that it is the posers that she must cherish the most, their hypocrisy hard to swallow, but she suffers no indigestion.
Subatomically, she bonds her sistren and brethren in unlimited combinations. Outward appearance is irrelevant, a lark, a distraction, only a means for separation when she understands innately that we are but one aspen grove, seemingly individual, but linked as a unified being. She is the pot of gold from which the glorious rainbow of humanity arcs and into which it again empties. She laughs at the idea of discrimination, guffaws at the laziness of identification by surface appearances, as people do not possess the tools to see the internal particles that are the only true definition of a person.
She does not fear death because she knows that death is life, that the end is illusory because forms are infinite. In corporeal form, she may lament a scrape or a bruise, the temporary sting of nerves and pain and yet also be thankful for the reminder of fragility – she is annoyingly optimistic that way. In time, she will return from whence she came, only to reappear, a Möbius strip that expands in concert with the ever-burgeoning universe.
She is indestructible, she is omnipotent, she is love.