Thursday, July 10, 2014

If a word were human


Scintilla [sin-til-uh]
-noun
    a minute particle; spark; trace.

A faint and petite silhouette sits at the edge of a wooden and familiar dock.

Scintilla spends each summer afternoon with her small bare feet dipped into the cool lake. Her arms cradle her tattered leather journal. Her eyes focus on where the sky seems to touch the water. 

Many do not notice Scintilla, but those who do cannot understand why most do not.

Her frame is small, but her hazel eyes are big and contain the spark most lose when they grow older. Her hair appears fully brown, until the sun reveals traces of light he left behind. Her lips are naturally a darker red than most. I like to think the strawberries she eats every morning are the beautiful culprit.

The freckles on her nose often briefly vanish, for her nose scrunches whenever she laughs. Most of her thoughts are kept on paper, but when she speaks her voice is gentle, and her words full of wit, wisdom and wonder.

I once asked her if it bothers her that she often goes unnoticed. 

"With being unnoticed, comes noticing what most miss," she said.

Scintilla taught me to see. 

"Some look and dismiss, but others see and understand," she said. 

"Those that see . . . What do they understand?" I asked. 

"They understand there is a lot of mystery in this world. But mostly they understand there is hope."

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