She excelled at beauty. She would climb the soap dish in the shower to look at the clouds. Often, she would say things like, “This is good squirrel weather,” and “Play sweetly together today.” Most beauty is like a hot knife, painfully piercing the soul of the observer, leaving a wound that can only be healed by a deeper wound. She was a knife thrower, but terribly inaccurate; a terror of beauty, really. She didn’t care where it landed and she threw the world into a frenzy with her reckless disregard for the extraordinary. If it was mundane, boring, dull, colorless, she loved it all the more. She would stop to smell the dandelions and blow their spores onto the rose gardens of her neighbors.
If you’ve ever seen the sun rise over the Indian Ocean on July 25th with low clouds hanging over the beach, and seen the color that reflects off the white sand mirror, you know what color her hair was. Her skin was the white sand that feels like clay between your toes and is good for playing beach soccer. She wore a chain maille shirt made out of imaginary puffins–it protected her from the reality of Wal-Mart shoppers and Santa Clause.
On that day, she left her shoes made from three-leaf clovers at home.