She was pretty, in an awkward way,

Perhaps fifteen years old,

Not quite finished growing.

She'll be beautiful one day,

I can tell.

But just then,

She had braces,

Unruly blonde curls,

Bright blue eyes that sparkled,

Like she was interested in everything.

She had a smile that came easily,

Even at six-thirty in the morning.

The smattering of freckles across her nose,

And the dimples accompanying that smile

Made her seem adorably childlike.

The girl was an artist,

And had the most beautiful hands,

Graceful and slender,

Set apart from her slightly too-long legs.

Paint, plaster, and glue

Forever clung to her

Hands,

Face,

Hair,

Uniform.

Even at the formal events,

She had clay under her fingernails.

She was utterly tone-deaf,

But she sang anyway,

Loudly and often,

Because it made her happy.

We walked together every morning,

Through the woods,

Just as dawn was breaking,

Talking about nothing in particular.

But somehow, those were some of

The most important moments

I've ever experienced.

It was ten days.

We saw each other for

Ten minutes a day.

It's strange,

Knowing someone for

One hundred minutes,

And yet....

I haven't seen or heard from her since.

Even so,

I think of her often.

Maybe she's forgotten me,

But I'll always remember

The girl

Who taught me a new way to look at the sunrise.