My grandma used to talk about love, pretty often, actually. She loved everything. Every blade of grass in her garden, every ant in the anthill in the corner of the yard, the dandelions that she refused to pluck, the hummingbirds she left seeds out for. She was a sweet woman, gregarious and a pleasure to be around. It hit me the hardest when she passed. Only thirteen and losing the person who loved me the most. I yearned to become just like her, content and affectionate. Yet my crippling personality and subjugated mental disorders prevented me from.
It was quite exhausting, holding my breath for every little thing.
But then I saw her.
A sucker punch right in the chest that forced me to exhale.
Now here she is, just as captivating and memorizing as she was the first time I saw her.
Sitting with her legs crossed, leaning against the old oak tree behind the library, carefully detailing the little flecks on the various petals of a nearby flower on a bush. There was multiple stains in her little sketchbook, smears of pencil lead, pen steaks, coffee stains, what looked like lipsticks, and surprisingly enough, cigarette burns. Just burnt little holes within some of the pages.
Arabella didn't take me for one to smoke, her teeth almost as bright as her eyes and she always smelled like raspberries and mint. I almost wanted to ask, but she looked so content doodling flowers that would never be half as beautiful as she was, I couldn't bring myself to.
So I stayed quiet, my arms resting behind my head so I wouldn't have to crane my neck so much to watch her. I was close enough that I would be able to nudge my knee into her elbow. She reminded me of my grandma, as odd as that sounds. So capable of love, under the boughs of hate.
Isn't she lovely?
