Good morning, Violet – by Helena Gautvik Tronstad (College)
At dawn I sat with my chin on my knees in the quiet corner. That’s where you found me. As you were about to pass, you stopped. Your stoic expression – no expression – locked my careful gaze. I did not move. You came closer and offered your hand. I was hesitant at first, but then I reached. You grabbed my little finger and pulled me in. Before our words met, you let me go in a spin and grabbed me the moment before I fell, laughing.
I caught my breath, put my hands around your neck and we slow danced. A kindle, or a drizzle, ignited in my heart. I wondered at you, exploring the unbreaking surface, but your anchoring squeeze on my hips washed away my doubts.
You twirled me gently around and spoke. I listened but lost you for a moment – distracted by the sudden light in your eyes. I smiled at it and let myself melt into your embrace, face resting on your chest. I searched your heart, but you pushed me away. The surface of you was still sealed, and the sky grew darker. A warm touch, but questions hanging in the air. I see that as I softened to you, rain and clouds had formed.
Now I nod at the dirt, and I face the rain. I go back to the quiet corner and I sit among the flowers as night falls, and I sleep. I tell you: you must learn to receive what you seek when the sun yet again approaches our pale faces. You danced with me in the sun, but did not open. I regrow.