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  • He was from the city. He’d been around. He felt so worldly-wise. Completely above such naïve things as true love. She appeared so clean and sweet and innocent, albeit with an other-worldly, old country charm about her. Her eyes did haunt him long after their initial meeting. She’d been part of the Welcoming Committee the day they moved into their new house, her old house, as they delivered the keys to get in. She with her long, black hair and knowing eyes, with Mary, the Joni Mitchell-like blonde beauty. He’d seen a young girl with a girl he’d like to get to know better. Both were obviously checking him out, and he felt that the impression left was favorable on both accounts. He dismissed Rebecca as too young and childlike, focusing his interest on Mary, the blonde.

    It happened months later, long after it didn’t work out with Mary, after he’d struggled through the hardest summer of his 17 years, withdrawing from drugs, alcohol, and life. It was now early Autumn. He was slowly emerging from his suicidal prison, coming back to life. She’d suddenly appeared like a vision, floating in the distance on her bike down the old country lane while he peddled his down another, a field of flowing wheat between them. Where the two roads converged, he first began to fall. It was those eyes again. They danced in delight at the sight of him.

    Where he’d once seen a young girl, he now saw a beautiful , graceful woman. She’d grown into those eyes. As she spoke, he realized she was much wiser than he’d realized, every word a delight, as those eyes pierced his soul and touched his heart.

    The strangest sensation began to occur throughout his being. Where, minutes before, he’d felt heavy, peddling that bike along that long, lonesome lane, he now felt light, with a sense of – what was that feeling creeping through his being – hope, joy, connection. She didn’t seem to know, nor care, where he’d been or what he’d done all summer. She was interested in where he was going. And, she seemed to want that destination to include her. He flew away from the chance meeting on wings of happiness, gliding far above his long, lonely months of despair.

    That initial spark quickly grew to full flame as their hearts and souls converged. They came together for a beautiful three days deep within a forest – among many friends, but together, something special was born, once-in-a-lifetime special, or so he thought. He was all in, sure that she was there, too, as she had invited him in.

    She was working at the restaurant, wearing the costume of old times, that accentuated her old world charm. He’d dropped by just to see her, but realized he had to reveal how he felt, as he waited for her break. The old woman in the lobby looked at her dance by, then right at him, and said to him, “Isn’t she a beauty? Best not let that one get away!” And he determined not to.

    “What’s wrong with you – you look so…so serious.”

    “I am serious – I love you. Surely you feel it too?”

    And that’s when those eyes changed. For the first time, they did not contain the hope, the joy, the love that he had seen in them. They held a sorrow, a sadness, a pain that he did not, could not, understand. The words that followed the look were inconsequential. The eyes had told the whole story. He turned, and walked away, while his entire world caved in all around him.

    That night, at 3 a.m., a photo of another beauty, with sad, knowing eyes, caught his soul on the rebound, sent a message to his brain, which leaked out through his pen to the paper, giving birth to his first ever poem – Mona Lisa at 3 a.m.

    Thus, a writer was born.
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