He thought of her dark and wide-set eyes in look unique to her alone and which he’d never found in face or designing of another: a strange and suppressed comeliness, subtle beauty, becoming more apparent the longer one allowed their eyes to see and that, like her spirit, aloof and quiet, made him imagine wild-spirit soul as much as the woman, girl, that she was.
He thought to school, class shared of literature, art, and writing. Had he ever read her writings then? Had she ever read his own?
He could not remember.
It was long ago.
What he remembered was her face, her eyes and quiet presence—recognition—though few words were ever shared between.
Like she, he was quiet and reserved. Maybe that was why he saw.
Writing was his most-open expression, and there were few who ever knew.
He thought of years and life since then and wondered why it was, sometimes, people of the past—remembered a way—return back into our present.
Was there reason?
Was it chance?
Was answer what one chooses to believe?
He didn’t know, but he thought it interesting as he set into his day.
In timber line at far edge of the pasture, a doe stepped out from the woods. Brown of its body outlined stark against snow white cover of the ground. Dark and wide-eyed, doe looked to him. Eyes’ meet, quiet recognition, doe paused a moment more.
Next: tail’s raise, ears alert, she turned in move and disappear into the trees.