It was a Thursday when the doctor
gave news of the small child’s birth.
She was the first girl,
the entire light
in her mother’s new world.
Daughter of the mayor,
her name would
turn up in the local paper.
Letters would be written as
townspeople learned of the labor.
It was early in the summer,
birds pecked the dirt,
looking for worms.
The nurse was late for work,
as she was a helper
at the local church.
Times would eventually turn,
but for now, little Pearl
was like a dam waiting to burst.
The curl of her lips
showed her mood was firm.
She was a wave
that would soon be heard.
Quickly, she began to stir,
her eyes starting to blur.
Her mother worried,
feared the worst,
but all Pearl wanted
was someone to
nourish her thirst.
Years later, Pearl would sit,
searching a diner
while summer went quick.
Who was a tourist,
who did she know?
She was dressed
in a purple shirt,
and glamour radiated
down to her toes.
It was the third time
the waiter returned,
this time with Pearl’s dinner,
and the courage to earn
her number while the sun
slowly burned.
She drew circles in her journal,
finding peace among the curves,
and encouraged the boy
in thirteen little words.
The next week, she offered
him her hand,
and below the evening sun,
a new journey they began.