The Spectrum of Joy
You have never been able to describe her. She defies classification, refuses to be pinned down like a butterfly to cardboard, flits away from every attempt to trap her in your specimen cages. When you first met her, that day in the woods, she helped you search for the elusive britescout, hidden somewhere in the leaves. You never found the creature, but you did discover something incredible, something unique, something incredibly precious. You didn't even know it at the time.
You thought her young, silly, strange. She is all of those things, it is true, but now you know that she is so much more. She is a vision, a ghost, a mirage. No human can be this small, waif thin, with the wisdom of ages in the eyes that eclipse her pale face. She is a child, a grandmother, an old soul. This one existence, this one attempt at life cannot be her first. Already she is wiser than her father, more alive than those who have lived for a hundred years and have experience in such matters.
She is a dewdrop, thistledown, a dirigible plum. She floats rather than walks and dances rather than runs. She is a sunbeam, a shooting star, a firefly. She feeds off light and holds it inside herself, to give as a gift to anyone who earns her thin smile, her brightened eyes, her woodpecker laugh.
She is dawn, dusk, early morning periwinkle. She has one thousand different faces, each one somewhere in the spectrum of joy. She is occasionally, very briefly, like her namesake, the moon. Content to reflect the ight of others, to shine for them, through them. She is a poem, a song, a story - this girl is anything but flesh and blood. Her skin is paper and her eyes are music and her step is like words. Words like whimsy and effervescent that melt on your tongue and drip like honey and rise like smoke.
She is the cosy warmth of a hearth, the graceful branch of a willow, reaching to the water - or maybe she is a sunflower, craning upwards, always upwards, searching for her jet trails, absorbing the sun. She flickers like a candle, but never wavers. She has roots, strong as an old and gnarled oak, but still she dances in the rain, feet barely touching the ground.
She is a dreamer, a searcher, a believer, an artist. She paints wishes and connects them with golden hopes. She is utterly and completely herself. She is standing right there and you are standing right here and you are side by side, like you should be -will be- forever. This is one moment you know you will never regret. She is one person you know you will never tire of. And you know right then that you, Rolf, do take her, Luna, to be your wife. Two words, a ring and a kiss and your fate is sealed. You have made your greatest find.
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