Rhiannon;;D7 COMPLETE

The trouble with portraits is that no matter how carefully you attempt to mimic the shape of a face, no matter how closely you study the angle of the nose or the set of the jaw, no matter how methodically you test the colors of the complexion or the eyes or how attentively you counterfeit the shadows and shading, a portrait is merely a poor representation of its subject. The artist is always at liberty to modify the appearance their vassal, always at free to omit a displeasing mark or blemish, always unimpeded from adjusting the skin tone, or lightening the eyes, adding highlights and lowlights to normally dull and drab locks. Portraits can never truly represent their occupant, whether it is their true beauty, or the fiction of it. Photographs are little better. Chance the lighting, change the angle, and quite often a subject may feign their beauty. There are times, however, when no medium may capture the exquisiteness of a person. Not oil, pencil, chalk, clay nor marble may hold the regality of such a creature, nor capture the intensity of their gaze, or the purity of their soul. For there is a light within them the shines, that burns, so brightly it commands the devotion of all who look upon it.

I have been told that I am one such person. I have seen the photos, the one my mother keeps tucked inside and old shoebox high on a shelf in an attempt to keep them secret and keep them safe. I have only seen them a handful of times, and even from the very beginning, I could see that the photographers were of me, but they were not me . I appeared unfamiliar in those black and while little squares in the same way he did. I’m just like my father in that regard, my mother says, too beautiful to capture. She had him, for a time, and I inherited all that he had to give. The first photograph that was ever taken of me I can’t even remember, I’m very small, a child on wobbly feet, a wide, toothless smile on my face, a big bow in my colorless hair. It seemed wrong though, as if the child I was looking at was foreign, and not my own reflection from years before.

It was always the eyes.

The second photograph of me I’m seven years old, sitting on stool in a black and white polka dotted frock that I can’t recall the real color of, my front teeth missing. My hair’s slicked back, carefully combed behind a solid black headband, falling in a perfectly straight waterfall. My hands are folded in my lap like a proper young lady, and my feet are crossed at the ankles. The socks are just ridiculous though, stark white with big frills at the top. Now I’m shocked I let myself be dressing in such a frivolous pair of socks, then again, they’re only socks. My eyes are locked with the camera, and they’re turned up on the sides in a smile, but you can’t see their color, you can’t see how bright they are with wonder and with mischief. I remember having to be chased onto that stool and bribed to sit patiently. The photo can’t show what a handful of a child I was, nor how brilliant I was - even at that age. All you see is a little girl, sitting like a lady, with long hair. Plain and dull and boring, no spark, no life.

In the next I’m probably only twelve, and it’s on my first Reaping day. I know this because I’m lined up with my siblings. I’m nearly as tall as my older sister, standing at her nose. We’re all tall and slender, everyone in my family is. My brother’s stand in a row behind us, the hands behind their backs, feet shoulder length apart, hair combed to the side, faces set. I’m standing with my arm linked with my sister’s. I can remember the dress, a bright yellow – like a sunflower – inch thick straps that went straight over my shoulders and buttoned on the front, knee length with tool beneath it to give it some volume, to give my immature body shape. My hair’s shoulder length and beginning to fill out, slightly wavier than it had been in my childhood portrait. You can see the forced smile on my face, you can tell its forced by the way my eyes are squinting. That picture can’t show you how terrified I was, scared out of my mind – and my emotions are always on my face, always in my eyes.

The most recent one of me was taken only a few months ago, just before my grandfather passed. He’s standing bent, leaning heavily on a cane, and I’m right by his side. I’m a full head taller than him – I’m taller than most of the girls now – my hair’s in a short braid the falls only just over my shoulder, the sunlight illuminating some of the natural highlights and lowlights that frame my face. It’s still in black and white, so unless you’re familiar with me, you’d never know my hair’s a rich dark strawberry blond with bright golden highlights and natural cranberry and mahogany lowlights. I swear I have the weirdest hair color but momma says it’s just like his. I’m smiling, big and bright in that photo, my teeth are straight, my cheeks round and filled out, the dimples clear little indents in the sides of my face. It’s a shame you can’t see our eyes in color, the grandfather I’m standing with is my biological father’s father, and we have the same eyes. They’re a pale sapphire with little flecks of lilac; only visible if you come close enough to see. That’s not the only feature we have in common though, I've got my father's looks, and my father got his father's looks, so we have the same round face, the same straight nose, though his is bent from a break in his younger days, and the same full ever smiling mouth – though his lips are a little thin from a lifetime of use. But, where my grandfather is bent and twisted with age, I’m tall and lean and strong with youth, the feminine muscles on my arms clear in my striped summer shirt, the muscles in my calves clear beneath the khaki shorts.

Enjoy your youth Rhiannon, for one day, you will wish you had it once again.

The trouble with books is that their covers can be deceiving. A richly bound leather tome may turn out to be filled with the babblings of a senile old man, and a homely cloth bound volume may have the richest and most sensual poetry one has ever read. The writer has the power to captivate us, to lure us in with their choice of words. In the case of stories and epic tales, the reader may get a feeling or a sense of the characters originally – the gallantry of a knight, the virtue of a maiden - but always as the story goes you get to know them better to trust them and love them. We come to learn of their hopes and dreams and of their fears. We feel as though they have become old friends. Occasionally, those characters will turn on you, surprise you – plunge a knife deep within your spine. It is the same way with real flesh and blood people. We may see the tall handsome woodcutter as a valiant and true man, but within in could lurk a dark and devious nature. The lovely blue eyed girl walking her younger siblings to school we may see a king and nurturing, but perhaps she would forsake them at a moment’s notice to save herself. People are confusing creatures, and there is not a single person who would not attempt to understand everyone the meet the first time they meet them. Whatever that first impression may be, however, our view of that person may change, the longer we know them, the better we know them. I like to think that I don’t change much from the moment you meet me to the time our friendship ends – if it ever does.

My momma always told me: Always be yourself baby, let everyone see the real you – because then maybe they’ll love you half as much as I do. So that’s what I’ve always done, I’ve meant every smile, I’ve meant every kind word and every hug has always been a whole hug. I say what I mean, and I stand by what I say. That was one of the lessons my father taught me, Always stand by what you say, little bird, because one day your words may be all you have. I think the hardest part for me though, is hiding my emotions. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve; always show my happiness, my sadness, my anger and my pain. I have always been an easy one to read, because I see no sense in hiding feelings. What good would it do to deceive someone? What good would it do to say you were not angry, when in truth you’re seething with rage? To hide your feelings – to internalize them – is to allow the pot to simmer, and eventually it may boil over, and then who’s hurt?

I can remember the small piece of advice my grandmother gave to me as she lay on her deathbed. She’d held out a pale, gnarled hand to me and called me close. I bent to put my ear to her lips, and she said it me: Guard your heart, my girl. Guard it from those who would use your goodness against you. Fortify your heart, against those who would plunder its riches. It is the only advice that woman ever gave me, and I was only six when she died, but it has stayed with me my entire life. Probably because of that advice though, I have lived a bit of a secluded life. I do not easily give my trust, or my friendship, I am far more than careful with those I confide in. I am afraid of it though, I am afraid to trust people, afraid to give my trust wholeheartedly into the hands of another. What if they should molest it? What if they should tear it to pieces before my very eyes? For that exact reason, I can come off as icy to strangers, weary and suspicious. Why shouldn’t I be though? I watched my sisters life be torn apart because she trusted the wrong people, I held her as she cried herself to sleep, I saw how the depression crippled her, morphed her into a person I hardly recognize.

The trouble with books is getting through the introduction. The very beginning is always the hardest part to get through, it’s where the reader will decide if they want to continue with the volume, or move onto another. I find it’s the same with people. That awkward phase of small talk and a thousand questions is always the most trying time, but once it has passed, I believe the truth in people begins to shine through. For me, it is always hardest to conquer that fear of trusting someone, but once they have passed my tests, I will begin to let them into my heart, and see that the ice I wear is merely armor. Behind those icy gates is a field of the greenest crass, beneath the bluest sky, with the sweetest of breezes. True beauty lurks within all people; you just have to dig deep enough hat times to see it. There is kindness and goodness with all – but try telling that the cynics. I have spared food, coin and clothing for those who have gone without; I have visited the elderly and the ill when no one else will. I have sat beside a creek and waited for a wild tom cat to walk my way. Kindness, patience, caring, loyalty, empathy, and hope. These are but some of the good things I am have been blessed with, but to every sunrise must come a sunset, every light must have its darkness. Fear, suspicion, naïve, squeamish and withdrawn, these are the other pieces to my puzzle. Pieces that are only seen by those closest to me.

Despite the fact that I have lived my life in relative comfort, I have seen those that suffer and those that go without. I can see it in the gaunt faces of the hollow stomached children as they march to school, I can see it in the bony foresters, or in the sallow faced dying – and I dream of a world where these people, the ones who have gone without their entire lives, live with just as much as I have. I believe everyone should have a chance. For that I am called naïve and laughed at by my brothers, but I hold fast to my beliefs. For I know that a day will come when everyone shall live as equals. I just know it. You would think for all this resolve, and all the people who I’ve seen die, or for the all the injuries my brothers have acquired, or all the Games I have had to watch, I would have a stomach for blood and gore and death. I don’t. I never have. As a child blood fascinated me, but during one of the Games I watched a boy I knew become disembowel, since then I cannot bear the sight or smell of blood. It send me reeling. For my age, I have seen too many people I know die, and I do not want to lose anyone else, so as my friends fall, I take no others in their place. I would rather live contently alone, than having the constant threat of loss looming over my heart.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.