Heavily lashed eyes painted with the absence of light.
Her hair was the color of the the raven. Organized strands, pressed against her scalp, pulled together with a “color of the day scrunchy”, while the fluff of her wavy black hair splayed from the gathered fabric, bouncing proudly as she walked, and landing obligingly on her cardigan draped shoulders.
A cotton turtle neck blouse choked around her throat, folding purposely just under her sterling silver hoop earrings.
Her skin, the color of sweet salted butter and flawless.
Her cheeks brushed with plum rouge.
Her naturally pink lips pursed, pulling upwards at the sides, as she stared over the slightly raised bump on her Sicilian born nose.
She was brilliantly confident.
Her eyes never blinked as they pierced stark through all you ever knew of joy and whimsy.
And she hated me, for reasons I know not.
Her eyes told me so.
She was only 7 years old, and with the power of an ocean storm behind her.
(God bless her that she remains in good health and confident.)