Is it her lines that vanish at the end of the photograph, that only captures part of her and only for a moment as if she is a wild beast that cannot be caged by color and paper?
Is it her eye’s that tell a story so sad and happy, that I am more than willing to hear her words and let them carry me into feeling that I have not had for some time?
Is it her age, that is closer to my children that my own, and yet at time’s she is wiser than I, with all my years of life lived?
What is it that this dark flower stirs in me, that I find brightens my life so much? When yet, she is not as dark as she appears to be?
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