This is what I always see when I think of her: a goddess overflowing with life, vivacious to a fault.
Oh, nineteen was the age of Olympic gods, still young and beautiful, still children, but adults, unmistakeably adults.
I hoped I would become a god too when I turned nineteen.
I was a fifteen-year-old alien mongoose pretending to fit in, and godhood did not grant itself to the likes of me.
It was the life in her I fell in love with. I had never seen anyone so alive, it blinded my soul.
Patiently I waited to be allowed to kneel by her side, and worship.
She was merely a transit passenger in the airport of my life, rushing through it on a sunny morning. But she let drop this framed picture of a goddess, and it stayed with me throughout the years.
My blond sunshine goddess. You do not even know. I have not touched you the way you have touched me.
When I stalk her online, I see her face did not age well. Wrinkles look terrible on a goddess. It doesn’t add up; she never had any bad habits.
Her body, though, is still lean and athletic.
She has made a child in her faraway galaxy. The mischief is still there in her eyes, but controlled, like a river re-routed through an underground pipe.
We are both not nineteen anymore. And never will be again.