She sits there, on the chair, outside the door. Her hair is messy, and unkempt. I think she tried to brush it in the morning, but it escaped its bounds as hair is wont to do. And now it hangs, framing her face. That beautiful face that stares off into somewhere, thinking silent thoughts.
She talks sometimes. Constantly, when she does. Loudly. Boldly. With emotion and gusto. She has opinions and she shares them; sometimes bravely, sometimes defiantly. Sometimes not at all.
Sometimes she says nothing. She just sits there, on her chair with her unkempt hair and all her thoughts. That beautiful girl. That beautiful brave, sometimes outspoken girl.
She sings too. Sometimes. Songs she’s heard, songs she’s made up. Songs that have been whispered in her heart. When the world doesn’t watch she sings and she dances and she makes music of the most wonderful kind. The music of a soul that is truly free.
And sometimes she doesn’t sing. She sits on her chair. She with her brave words, and her beautiful songs and her wild, carefree dances. She with the unkempt hair.
She tells stories. Amazing stories. With infinite detail, that might seem pointless to many. She sees detail in people’s lives. In who they are and their own tale. She sees value in the many, because she is kind. This brave, outspoken, story telling, song singing, kind-hearted girl.
The girl who sits on her chair. The girl with the unkempt hair.
She tells me things, sometimes, this little girl. She sidles up next to me and whispers to me her secrets. Good secrets. Bad secrets, and one that always makes me cry. She doesn’t see her worth, this beautiful, kind, brave, teller of stories and singer of songs. She misses it constantly. Seeing only the failure and the fault and the times she falls short.
Seeing only dirt on the ground, behind a wall of unkempt hair.
“Tell me your heart” I plead silently to her, watching her on her chair; watching her watch the world. “Tell me how to make you see who you are. Your beauty and your grace. Your wisdom and your passion. The wonder of who you are.”
She sits there, on her chair, she with the unkempt hair, and she answers my questions with her own.
“Do you see me?” she whispers silently.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Will you take the time to love me?”
Little girls dream of all sorts of things. Tales of grandeur and beauty. Stories of dragons and swords. They are all different, all those little hearts, but they all have the same desire. To be known for who they are. And loved accordingly so.
She sits there, on her chair. She who is brave and speaks boldly. She who is beautiful in face and form. She who sings songs and tells tales. She who loves people.
And she asks me to love her back.
And I do.
The girl in the chair with the unkempt hair.
I love her so.