SOMEONE I ONCE KNEW

She trailed the group, mostly mute, blue-eyed, an occasional smile. The boys (boys back then, men now) yammered, preened, talked smart, and drank. She observed. Seemed concerned about her shoes, and then some. As smart as I assumed she was, she was easy to overlook, but I don't regret my mistake. I could not have heard her whispers. She seemed a sidekick. I was a newcomer. Two quiet girls with loud boys. We got on with our lives.

Now she has a blog.

Rapt, I discover she has a heart, she has a daughter, she has eyes, (with which she sees) she has God.

She is truly a poet.

She has a voice. A clear, confident voice.

She was married, and, I think, divorced. Writing her life without mention of her daughter's dad. I knew him -- one of the loud boys. Is he really as absent as he seems, or is his absence a vital part of her story? His silence is relief.

What is her story? It involves the importance of chores and the comfort of song.

She lives in the middle of nowhere, and she is capable. She takes pictures and dances.

Her blog life is crafted, carefully edited. Lenses are switched, pains swiftly glossed over. Days end meaningfully.

All this art not to be confused with reality.

But the reality is -- she writes every single day.