that was where she met her.
in the forest, occupied by nobody but the blue birds and the ladybugs.
her family would come every summer and rent the cabin by the woods. they would walk around or fish by the lake. she had learned how to catch mackerels and distinguish maple from oak just by its smell. it was tradition, and not one that she would like to break.
she was fourteen when she had met her. it was june, and the sun was still up. she had gotten permission to wander around the woods as long as she made sure she knew her way back by dinner. smiling, she grabbed her notepad and pen and ran out the door and into the arms of the welcoming forest.
the part she liked most about inhabited places are that every spot can be her own. each part and each area feels like it was hers. it was like the only things in the world was her and the maple trees. she sat beside one, and let the sun mark spots of bronze on her as the leaves covered her face all the way to her torso from the heat.
carefully, she opened her journal. she treated her notebook like it was porcelain and she could not afford to break it. one click of the pen, and she started writing about the sound of the water being moved by the wind and the
song the leaves played as they ruffled and fell.
"hey, ocean eyes!" somebody called out. it sounded like somebody around her age, she thinks. she looks above her notepad, and sees the girl in front of her. her skin was like an unpainted canvas and her hair was as golden as sunflower petals. her favorite type.
"hi," she replied, even though it sounded more like she questioned her instead of greeting her. she could not help but notice the way the sunlight combed her hair, softly and strongly.
"aren't you going to ask me why i called you ocean eyes?" the girl asks, smiling just as wide as when she first saw her.
"is it because my eyes are blue?" she asks.
the girl nods and smiles even bigger, "what's your name?"
"i don't like telling strangers my name." she whispers to her.
"that's alright. i'll just call you dewy. like dew drops when it rains. does that work? you can call me blondie. that's what everybody calls me. everybody but my sister. i don't like it though, but i'll make an exception for you. so, what are you doing?" she sits beside her and the tree trunk.
"i'm just writing on my journal. i'm not from here, my family just goes every summer. that's why i'm writing as much as i can. it's not until another year i can start writing again. i have three months, then i gotta wait until next summer."
"that's cool. i live here. not in the forest here, but around the area here. i bike here everyday, but i don't think i've just sat here in the woods before. i usually hike by the mountains by myself."
"by yourself? how about your family or your friends?"
blondie laughs, "my parents aren't really into this nature thing. i showed my sister here once. we went stargazing, but that was about it. as for friends, i don't have any."
they smiled sadly at each other.
"so, dewy. what are you writing about?" she asked.
the other girl smiled. "close you eyes, blondie. just trust me. you'll understand."
confused, the blonde girl did. she noticed how the fallen leaves feel on her hands and the soft croaking of the frogs and toads on the lake.
"you hear it? feel it?" she asked. blondie smiled and nodded her head.
"can i read what you wrote?"
she only handed her notebook to her.
"there are plenty types of art.
there is the music that plays on the radio.
drums and guitars, voices in harmony.
there are paintings in the museum.
some of people, some of different colors.
my favorite books, the most captivating plays.
though these are beautiful in their own way,
my favorite artwork is this place.
my favorite song is the sound of the birds,
chirping by the trees.
the color i like most is my skin,
when the sun kisses it in the morning.
my favorite story is the sunrise to the sunset,
ending with the moonlight and the stars.
the way the leaves fall,
like the characters in shakespearian tragedies.
this is my favorite masterpiece."
