Her name is Autumn. She can see people; she can see their hopes and secrets, and she can see the person they are afraid to become.
Her hands are the most beautiful thing about her. Not for what they are, but for what they can create. She loves the feeling of ivory keys beneath her fingers, and she discovers truth within the lines of blank paper. She can write about anything and make it valueable. Her heart is like that; she takes things that others toss aside and gives them worth.
She doesn't like to be photographed. Not because she is shy of herself, but because she thinks that photographs lie. She thinks that hearing is more important than speaking, and that silence is more telling than words. She believes the most important thing a person can do is simply be. She is like her namesake: subtle, stimulating, and striking beautiful. But it is her soul that makes her beautiful; you can see it peeking out from behind the ivy-wreathed gold of her eyes, lending them a tell-tale warmth.
She always plays with her hands; as if she wants to make sure there is always life in them. She walks at a moderate pace: too fast for slow walkers, too slow for the fast ones. It's as if she wants to soak up every moment of her travels. She always has a destination, even if it is a distant one. There is a definite fluidity to her movements. Even her stillness does not settle.
She is full of grace, but she cannot dance. Her grace is not of the obvious kind; it is more innate than that. It reveals itself in a gentle strength of presence.
She has a potent smile. It does not take over her face, but it arrests her eyes. She always looks as if she knew something you didn't; she can see below the surface of the ordinary and she keeps the gems she finds there to herself.
Her heart comes alive when she has earth and crunching leaves beneath her feet, and only the tops of trees between herself and the sky.
She only likes wildflowers. She loves blank pieces of paper, and eye contact. She is warm with a gentle chill. She loves the constancy of change. Her name is Autumn.

10/02/2005

Author's Note: Prose, really; a character sketch. This was composed based on a single photograph of a young woman's hands.

Posted on 02/03/2006
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