At a glance

I never know what to say

When I'm at an art gallery

And I find the artist’s work

Hideous.

Nice...try?

I get it,

Obviously they put a lot of work into this.

Or someone thinks they did.

Or someone owed them a favor.

The point is,

I get that art takes work.

And I can appreciate that some effort

Was put into this…thing.

Maybe I just don’t know the history.

Maybe the artist suffers from anxiety,

And they can only paint with colors

That don’t cause them to panic.

That’s intriguing!

Or maybe their parent’s

Abandoned them in a wheat field,

And no matter how hard they try,

Wheat fields just pop up in their art work.

That tells a story.

But there’s only so much information

I can gain at a glance.

When I met her...

I was a freshman in high school.

She was the lead in the school play.

And she could teach classes to bluejays

The way people just flocked to her.

She was like

If your favorite college football team

Always beat Alabama.

Always.

Like if Chick’fil’a was open on Sunday’s

Like if objects in the mirror

Were the exact distance you thought they were.

So naturally

I assumed she would talk to me

When they figured out

How to make colonoscopies more appealing.

Which is to say,

Never.

Now you have to understand

I was going through my gothic stage.

Which,

You know,

We all went through.

So after my first audition,

When I didn’t get a role,

The fact that she said anything to me was

Unique.

At a time when I knew who I was

Like I knew Newton’s 3rd law of thermodynamics.

(I didn’t.)

She asked my name.

Twice.

Because I embarrassingly looked around

To make sure it was me she was addressing.

She asked "if I'd been nervous."

I said “yeah, must have been obvious.”

She said “nervousness,

Looks a lot like confidence on me.”

That three years ago she stood where I’m standing.

Said her name was Melanie,

And she looked forward to seeing what I would become.

And I wouldn’t know it then,

But what she said,

Would play a role on every stage I ever touched.

She had a way of seeing you

Like one of those fun-house mirrors

Only the reflection she gave you of yourself

Was the beautiful version.

The you that saw hope as a destiny

That held onto possibility like an old friend.

The version that would smile back and say,

“You have no idea do you?

How great you are.”

She saw the best you

Even if you couldn’t.

And would smile in your direction

Until you got the message.

That this life is just waiting for you to feel it.

Alive.

She was the kind of girl who could sell out a funeral.

I know,

Because she did.

She could see the good in anyone.

Even the man at the convenience store

Asking for a lift,

Who will spend the rest of his life in prison

For taking hers away.

I have a hard time finding the beauty in tragedy.

Tend to only want to see disaster at a distance.

And I only got to see the art piece of her life

For two years.

A glance really.

But it was enough to change the way I saw myself.

So where others might only see tragedy,

I see memories.

Her legacy

Paints every stage I am lucky enough to see.

Her spirit

Colors my words so that they tapestry into meaning

Her presence

Presents poetry.

Even without physically being here.

When I go to art shows now

I try to take the time to read the stories of the artwork.

I realize that these pieces deserve more than a glance.

A good friend of mine taught me that.