She looked like a flower, because she was a flower. She was my wildflower and she encouraged the world to “let yourself xxxxxxx.” I opened the door and there she stood a smiling face for carpels, and blonde curls for petals. She looked like the sun was shining on her after a midday rain shower. She was glowing, radiating like a gold chain lying around the neck of a sunbathing model at the Raleigh Hotel. Her body, was draped in a long sundress. It was green with designs of blue and yellow and black and a slit that buttoned up the front. She had unbuttoned that slit to just above her knee, to show off her leg. A beautiful leg it was, a dancer’s leg although she hadn’t been to Suncoast Studios in months to samba or cha cha or even fox trot when her 84 year old friend Arnold was there. It was a porcelain leg, like the rest of her body; undamaged by years of sun worshiping to fit the ideals of beauty served up in trendy magazines. She was smarter than that. She knew who she was, and she knew that woman was perfect as is; perfect in size, perfect in shape, perfect in height, perfect in being. She reached out her hands to me, as she walked past the threshold, into the living room. We embraced. Our arms wrapped around each other, was the best feeling my body had felt in two and a half months. She always told me she loved my essence and now I was intoxicated by hers. It was so strong; it filled the living room like a vase full of star gazer lilies. I buried my face into her curls in hopes I could get tangled up in them and she wouldn't be able to let me go. In separation, my love had grown; it was strong, purposeful, and dedicated. Hers was gone.