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Posted by Dr. D , 11 December 2010 · 58 views

Her name was Rebecca Ibarra and she taught me how to love.  She taught such things with the hints of wisdom and a smile that told me her heart was at home.  She was sixteen-years-old and incredibly beautiful with cascading hair as black as the ravens wing and eyes that invited the moon to dance upon them. And in those days of my youth, she was the essence of all things.  There were no metaphors then.  Her hair was not like the ravens wing, rather the raven imitated her hair.  Her lips did not part like the morning flower, rather the flower mimicked her lips.  She was captivating and I was captive.  And it was all done in that marvelous innocence where she did not know she was beautiful and we did not yet know that we loved.

The memories have faded but never to corrode the feelings.  I remember that we came together in a place we did not know, nor one another.  We lingered there a while to learn that we could discover the greater parts of ourselves within another person.  We wrote of our feelings upon each others lips and our words, made clumsy by youth, spoke of a wisdom never to be recaptured.

In time she was gone.  It was the migration that families force upon their children without knowing the pain they leave behind.   There were promises made but never kept.  The letters became less frequent before finding their end.  And then time consumed us and we were not as we could have been.

But I keep her within the arms of my mind and cherish her for all that she was.  And wherever she is, I lift my glass to her and give thanks and hope that maybe there was a time when she did the same.