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The Girl Off The Plane

A persons face is like one of those photo-matic pictures, a ton of cuts, scrapes, and beautiful wrinkles each with their own story to tell. Like this one right here on her chin. It is from this one time when we were playing ball; she leapt straight into the fence. It looked like a head on collision. As she approaches your gaze is immediately fixed onto her gorges brown eyes; that can read your soul at a glance in a pool of all knowingness and comfort. She looks so thin now, but is still healthy. A black tank top rests gracefully on her shoulders as it clashes with her naturally blond hair. As she swaggers towards you the intoxicating smell of delicious strawberries arominates the air. Her long blond hair bounces from side to side as she explains her latest missionary trip to you. Your jaw drops to the ground at the idea of someone who is so giving of themselves to others. The trip sounds interesting, but you are trapped by the overpowering voice escaping her lips. The only thing it compares to is the soft wind blowing gently through a willow tree. Her touch is smooth and silky as her hand runs down your scraggily unshaven face. You realize that nothing else matters right now. Every event that has happened to the two of you is recorded in the heavens. When examining a person that you haven’t seen in this long you normally rely on memories. It never seems to be the present. What else was there to do at that point other than carry her bags to the car? The two of you drive for a long time, but it seems like a few seconds because of the company. You reach your surprise destination. You pull into your old neighborhood. As the car passes the finally aged houses appear. You halt to a stop in front of two homes. You can see a waterfall of mascara flow down Nikkies’ face. “What’s wrong?” You utter in a heightened sense of panic.
“They took out the big tree in front of the house,” she said trying not to swallow any of the black tears, “the one that was always glue when we played tag.”
“Well at least they left the stump.” Why do people even go back to an old house? It’s never as good as it was when you left it. Have you ever known a person to go back to a house and say, ‘Wow that house is better now that I left it‘? How does she know if that tree wasn’t forced out, “Well maybe it was infested?”
“Yeah, maybe,” she said during her fowl attempt to dry her eyes. You see what one-year away at college does to a person so fragile and light. Can’t you see? Everything important to her was rooted somewhere. Where? Was it that tree? No, it was in her past, your past, together. That’s all life really is just a reflection of the past. If you aren’t happy with the past then you can’t be happy with the present.

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