They call her a woman, I call her a force of nature, a magnitude of an eminent kindness. Her effervescence that lurked about her, smelling of jasmine and oak. She wouldn’t be defined in any terms save for “she”. Because she is She, and no one else held a stronger claim to the name. She lived the pronoun and made it hers, she knew what a woman is with no books, no letters and no numbers. She shined down on those who would try to kill her glow, she taught them how to be once and again. She knew exactly how to bury herself deep within the membranes of our brains. She planted herself with her ridiculousness, her inexplicable fits, her not-so-naive-naivety, her threatening looks. She, an embodiment of all things out-worldly and reminiscent, knew how to be home for the homeless, and refuge for the faithless.
The Beatles say the love you take is equal to the love you make, but I don’t see how that’s possible with She. She was more divine than earthly love. Her love is one that angels seek, but never receive. In my words I seem bias, and I am; how can I not be when She is my foundation, my solid rock, my fortitude? I am bias because She is the one who made love and compassion subjects of learned practice, and I was her subject.
They say she’s dust now, and she is. She’s gold dust that would never find its way home, or maybe has found a new home.