She was a writer.
She made everything beautiful. Fireflies & starlight could fascinate her for hours, river babble & leaf rustling she molded into masterpieces. Her eyes were wide, her ears were keen; the world around her never went unnoticed. She sat under windowsills & then again at computer desks, recording the unnoticeable details of each day in poetry of wonders. Emotions, she had many, turning sadness, fear, anger, into works of art.
But she could not make this beautiful.
This? This situation? This desperation? This time of huddling on beds in the middle of the night with tears streaming down her face? This time of silence in a room full of people oh, so confused? This time of avoiding; avoiding her friends, avoiding her God? This time of crying in dining, living, hospital rooms? This time of strangled songs? This time of gasped breaths? This time of grief? This death? & the last? & the last? & the last? & the last?
She did not want this to be beautiful. This, death—she had learned—was hard, was cold, was ugly.
She looked up at the sky.
A golden patch of cloud greeted her, so small it looked distant. Each fluff was outlined in glimmer that shined so, so brightly. Pink blended into purple as a smooth wall of nebulosity circled her stretch, releasing sky of perfect blue dotted with white. Awe struck her as she thought of the horror that surrounded her, that she should be so blessed to see this sight once again. As night descended & the heavens transformed, her gaze never left the firmament. Magenta & violet captured the sky, pushing on white & gold in a twist of mastery. They drove home & a pure circle of yellow, orange, pink, purple backgrounded her trees & houses, & she could only think of its beauty. Quotes & paragraphs floated through her head, & in her need & awe she tried to praise God.
Then, she realized it. Cogs span into place & puzzle pieces connected—not all of them, but a few important ones. She wrote this truth on her wrist in black marker, a reminder to not forget. “B E A U T I F U L.” It was not a promise of self-assurance, or a superficial quote, or a goal to reach, but a wonderful truth of God.
This does not have to be beautiful, because “God, You are beautiful.”
& it is beautiful.
Word Count: 411
POV: Myself (Third Person)
Something I want to write about in the future is the waves of grief. Grief comes in waves-- you can sob one second & laugh the next. I have been writing/talking about only those sad waves, but there have been happy waves, too. I wanted to assure y'all that I am not depressed. I'm just keeping on & watching God move in my life; in all of ours' lives.
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