Once upon a time a girl exposed herself to the world.
She walked slowly among the trees, which bloomed in the wake of her passing. Each tree she touched would erupt into a fountain of foliage—into colors so bright they nearly broke her heart.
And at night the trees would would whisper amongst themselves,
‘Did you feel the wind? Did you hear the song? Did you taste the poetry in the air?’
Those touched by her would wag their branches in a solemn, nostalgic nod. Such a wind, such a being, such art was rare in their forest.
Deep within the woods, the girl stopped at a house.
The house was old.
The house was beautiful.
It had been inhabited before but had stood empty for a while, patiently waiting for a visitor. And as she stood outside the door, from her skin escaped a wind—a waft—of poetry tingling with memory, which unwitnessed and invisible slipped through the cracks of the houses brick walls.
And the house fell in love with her. With all of her. He begged her to enter—invited her to stay.
She wasn’t ready to live in the house so she left. And the girl went on walking, leaving all the forest in wonder and the house waiting for her to return.
But in a different version of the story. In a different telling, the girl opened the wooden door of the house and kindled a lively, cheery flame in the house’s lonely fireplace. In a different telling she made the house beautiful—decorating it with herself and with her art.
Emma, find where love hides, Give. Share. Lose. Lest we die unbloomed.
Bailey Elliot Young