Prompt 30 - Her Eyes Convict Me

I have so many questions to ask her. “How are you doing?” That is the question I ask as I look at her profile picture she has uploaded to Facebook. She has a smile on her face, but it looks painted there as though when the camera's flash bulb breaks, immediately after that smile will disappear. Like a shooting star tearing across the black of space; that smile is gone as soon as it arrived. She lived out her teenage years in our home. An adopted daughter of my mother, but born to my father and a previous wife. My mother captained a tight ship, and my sister never could do as she was asked when she was asked to do it. Maybe that drove her away, maybe not. We all have our reasons. Most of them are not particularly good. Many of our actions seem admirable at the time, but we soon come to regret them.  We all harbor regret. The story of her life.

Her hair is dark as the night sky. Shimmering like silk and naturally curvy. Like the ocean, her temperament was restless. Always searching. Always running like she was being chased by a ghost. Never staying in one location, or with one man very long. Yet as I look at her photo, she seems to be finally settled. Like a shooting star, turbulent and volatile, but striking the ground and then laying for eternity at rest. I wonder. Has she found rest?

The endless searching led her straight into the arms of drugs. Hard drugs. The kind of drugs most people never come back from. Her arm almost didn't. She contracted hepatitis on a used needle. An infection caused doctors to come close to an amputation. But in her photo, I see determination on her face as well. She fought back. She has been weathered by the tempest, her face one of experience. And with experience, the ability to teach. Young girls need to hear her tale. Is she telling her story?

The room in which she is sitting in the photo appears to be a dorm like apartment. I believe she is in some sort of rehab center fighting to make a life beyond the one she has now left behind. She has gained weight too. Her face was once bone thin because of the drugs, but no longer. Her naturally tanned, Passamaquoddy complexion is evident. Once pale and gaunt, she now appears healthy. She may now be healthy, but is she happy?

We don't really speak these days. Haven't in years upon years. The anticipation of that awkward feeling one gets when there is nothing to say seems to great to overcome. To powerful to allow either one of us to move beyond just looking at photos on the web. Yet the words just won't come out. I want to ask her how she is doing. Ask her all of my many questions.  Her picture, more than anything else, says to me, “I am different now.” It says to me, “you will have to get to know me all over again.” Maybe someday I will put my fingers to the keys and ask her. I'd ask her all the questions shooting through my head.

Though her smile seems put on, her eyes tell the true story. They are deep and dark. Her body may be scarred and her face much older now than when I remember. Her eyes, however, have not aged a day, yet they carry a lifetime of knowledge. Those eyes reveal that she is still searching. Content, but still searching for a place to belong. A person who will be accepting. Those eyes convict me. My conscience asks, “will you be the one who will end her search? Will you quit being a coward and speak up?  Forget your silly questions and get to know her again!” Her photo online fades off the screen as quickly as it appeared.