I heard the bells on the door jingle before I felt her presence. I shifted my gaze and caught a glimpse of her as she broke the single hazy ray of sunlight that found the only window to fall through and graze her shoulders.

She was beautiful. Long black-jeaned legs, strappy heels, toes painted perfectly red and a lush goldenrod sweater cuddled around her long lovely neck. It looked hand knit and I wanted to curl up inside it with a good book and some hot tea. To sink into a comfy oversized chair and nestle in on a rainy day.

Her hair impersonated her legs in long straight plates delicately flowing in her breeze. She slid her sunglasses to hold her hair back just as the door closed and muffled the sounds of a diesel engine banging around the corner, heading west on 18th. She vaguely tossed her head and scanned the room with downturned eyes. She never wanted to catch anyone’s attention, her unworthiness trumped her grace. As a matter of fact, I don’t recall ever seeing her look anyone in the eyes and she barely spoke above a self-preserved whisper.

If you asked anyone in the café for their opinion, they would describe her as a beautiful, tall, slender woman. Well-dressed, high heels, perhaps a bit shy.

I wish you could see what I see. Then you might begin to love yourself, if even just a little bit.

When she joined me for our lunch date the woman who sat with me was hunched, sour, and clad in hand-me-downs. Her self-talk negative enough to make my stomach turn, her self-worth less than the coffee she sipped. When you sit so closely to a person that you can feel their thoughts, it becomes hard to remember anything but the color of their words. Sharp, jagged, murky, unloving. Ugly.

All it would take is one thought. I am good. Then two. I am worthy. Then three. I am here.

We sat together and shared news of the past, hopes for the future, and the to-dos of today. We laughed and sighed in between the memories and dreams, the awkward silences and chatty bridges. I wish my friend, the beautiful, strong, passionate woman had joined me or lunch. She’s the one I miss when we are apart.

Until the right thoughts make it past her eyes she will forever wear the mustard-yellow tattered turtleneck sweater. If she only knew, she is a wisp of a thought away from being the gorgeous, delicate, hand-woven goldenrod knit shrug that drapes the shoulders of a brilliantly loving woman who gracefully walks into a room and captures the attention of all with the slight of a smile. The threat of making that choice would sacrifice everything she ever thought, knew, or wanted to believe. Oh how I long for her to long for what she ought to be, for what everyone else can see. Even the mirror sees it, so why can’t she?

Perhaps, just maybe, she can.

Originally posted on LinkedIn June 15, 2017