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Pour Mademoiselle Karin

She was a chocolate eyed doe
face framed in a feathery shag
that David Cassidy would have envied.
She ate life with a sterling pickle fork.
Daughter of reinvention.
Men boys women girls peered into her
and went away longing, wanton.
She befriended me. I was shy but
I was smart and had perfect French pronunciation.
She found belle arte in my enunciation.
She desired to learn to reconstruct the same
fine Parisienne demeanor.
She who looked so exotique.
She who was plusque magnifique.
She escorted me home one day,
un beau in tow, rhapsodizing about smoke rings,
French kissing and Bonny Bell lipsmacker en frambois.
She could have been twenty,
but she was only thirteen.
I found her infinitely kind, calming.
In her company, I was happily serene.
She was serendipity.
Together, we planned petite soirees,
along with future tete-a-tetes.
But after un bon weekend,
Monday morning ushered in sordid regrets.
Rumors spread like an incurable disease.
And all my hopes for our continued friendship
became frail, flattened weeds.
Karin had tried huffing.
Or so, her older friends had told her to try.
She died blue-faced
chocolate almond eyes permanently dilated.
Amidst strange indifferent company
Karin had crawled off to die.
In pleasing others her fate
became fixed.
I felt no longer care-free.
I was lost, malingering
emptied out,
uncomprehending the dissipating fine soft mist
that she was.
And mourning her last reinvention,
I questioned,
Had she lived her life in silent purposelessness?
How could that have been her intention?
At thirteen?
Years later whenever I speak or hear French
I smile and think of her...
doe-eyed and so exotique
plusque magnifique
ma toujours belle amie,
Mademoiselle Karin.

A very rough draft. Written directly onto the keys.
Copyright 6 30 2011 all Rights Reserved by Author
Melissa A Howells/ meloo of Tilt-a-World.

In Ariel font so she may sleep where angels tread.


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