One day was filled with the white clouds the size of universes as we walked up (down) the hills. One day was seawater, digging toes in sand and smooth stones, not knowing how to speak to you. One day was the infinite day of jasmine, roses, and smiles in sunlight. One day was colder than any other, when she finally realized, on the eve of her birthday, that her eyes and smile were the most dangerous weapons she had. The amount of power in that realization nearly brought her to her knees, scared her so badly that she sought refuge in being alone.
One day was solitude by a pond with the midsummer prairie breeze tangling her hair, bench slats pressed hard against her back as she cried to the squirrel who sat nearby, looking confused. [humans are so strange]
One day was actually five days worth of looking into eyes across café tables (lunch tables/empty living room spaces/only 2 feet between us), trying to read soul sentences that blurred and skipped [“no one should be allowed to play the record of me like you did”, she thought, half in anger, half in joy].
One day she was the sweet child she once was, and the next she was standing tall in a pair of shoes that made her body look much too wonderful, and she hid behind her clumsy silliness and sharp remarks, and smiled her deadly smile and looked around with her deadly eyes and brought life and love back to 1/3 of the inhabitants of the room (the rest of them refused to meet her gaze).
One day was photographs on blank walls, captured stories in still frames.
One day was a woman in yellow galoshes as she deliberately stepped into a giant puddle, ripples moving out and she smiled as the water flowed around her.