If Love Is Blind

one

Claret was different than you and I.

You see, she had this gift, this ill-conceived way of understanding people. If you approached her, she would not listen; she would observe. The way you conveyed your words, the way you squinted your eyes, or perhaps the way you laced emotions between the breaths you took or the ones you didn't. She would not ask you commonly placed questions, as if she knew we all planned those out prior to our conversations. No; she did not care for your age, how big your family was, your aparent weight, or how much money you had stored in the bank. She would want to keep the tone of your voice and the way you changed the pitch when you emphasized. She would not want to know your hobbies, but instead the real reason why you enjoyed them.

If you spoke to Claret, you would know who you really were inside, because she could see through all the saran wrap with which you concealed your innermost brainstorms.

Maybe that is why no one ever approached her, because we are all too scared to see who we really are inside.

You and me, we see a girl who grew up on the streets; a beggar. We see her working a meager job to live ahead to a heart-rending life. We see her and think about the ill-favored clothes she wears, her wayward hair and the dirt between her fingernails. Then we choose from two different options: we ignore her, or we indulge in prejudice and condemn her to a lonely life with an unwarranted reputation.

You think you can see clearly, but you are no better than a blind man.

Now, she might not have been appealing, polished, or aristocratic, but she was a different kind of beautiful. It came from the very inside of her soul, all the way to her cell division. It fell off her fingertips when she held your hand. And when she spoke, her voice sounded like a never-ending melody with the perfect amount of cadence; a statuesque tone that blossomed into wild cherries during spring.

These are the many reasons why I was so interested in Claret Hale. When we spoke, regardless of the sixty-one year age gap, I felt like such an ignorant man. She opened up my mind so I was no longer third-eye-blind. It is not something physical, no. It is a feeling; one of satisfaction, like taking off your eyeglasses to clean them only to realize how blurry your vision has been all this time. You will see someone, feel a light breeze that will squeeze your head with real personal thoughts, not the slightly-plagiarized ones with which you have been fooling yourself and others all along. Only then will you have a true conversation with yourself.

Maybe you will feel it after you know her, too.