Elf-child met in the mall, forever out of my reach

The fleeting grace of the elf-child hit me like the bright early morning sun. Tan skin gleamed in the garish light of the mall and olive eyes twinkled with mirth. Tangled, messy chocolate hair hung to a childish waist, still lacking the slender line it would acquire in the years to come. A pink cotton dress that didn't suit her at all covered her from the night chill. She was all gypsy enchantment, jungle-scented wonder, libanese echo on a misplaced country. In my mind, she was already a grown woman, slender, lanky and elegant, in a dusty tunic that smelt of the musky earth and the dry sun, bare feet that rustled like leaves, light-spinning fingers beckoning me deeper into an unknown, dark forest.


Alas, in reality, the realm where her scent lingered on my pencil, she was a child, soul full of sensual fire that hadn't yet roared into life. In reality, we didn't know each  other or were aware of each other's existence. In reality, she was not an elf-child, no matter how pointy her ears were; she was not a witch-kid, spelling me as i passed.



In reality, i might as well not have existed for her. I felt myself die a little at this thought. But i was only the spinner, the one that took broken shards of another, more magical dimension, and spun them with spidersilk threads into the current of life, to make it more bearable, more full of color and magic, to make it enchanted so other people could drink enrichened, purified water. I was only the weaver that held the glass which colored the refracted light. And as a weaver, i had no right to intervene directly in the flow of life, had no right to walk up to her and ask her name, show her the stories held inside the air of a balloon, teach her to hear the colors in the music.

So i passed her without showing my excitement and i walked past her without even acknowledging her existence. The elf-child would forever remain in my mind, in the paper of my notebook, coloring the air with her mysterious fragance.