Last night, I walked down through the nature path, right past the soccer field, a fresh coating of snow covering the ground. Somewhere far away, there were children laughing, jokes being made, and, though I’ve become numb to anything remotely human, I found myself smiling.
But you know what made it better?
You.
Somehow, our paths managed to collide. Not completely intersect, but enough. As I walked, your voice lifted in clouds, high above our heads. I stopped moving, hidden behind a maple tree, and closed my eyes, listening as you sung, lips forming the words perfectly, honey on yogurt. Quietly, I caught a glimpse of your silhouette, head hung low, back hunched, yet you still resembled that of an angel, fallen from some world much darker than heaven. In the night, everything seemed to form around you—the wind brushed against the tree branches, accompanying you with an eerie percussion, while the giggling far behind rang as tiny bells.
Still, you were the main performance.
If there was any sadness in your voice, I didn’t notice. Or maybe I did, but blocked it out.
Because, sometimes, beauty washes away the scars.
