rutilant

I've known her since I was little.  Real little.  Six, maybe...?  Seven?  I remember her kindness.  That's what people always say about her.  Over the years, however, I've found more.
Her opinions are well-thought.  She voices feelings and ponders questions, questions that collect under that dark hair of hers and swirl around.  They make their way down her veins, searching for answers.  The side of her hand is sometimes stained from verbalizing possible answers to those questions with ink in her diary.  Sometimes the words beam through her fingers as she types at night on a blog I check several times a day.  Sometimes her words just float to outer space.
She enjoys hiding behind the frames over her eyes.  I see through most of the time, but I usually don't say anything.
Her gait can be uncertain sometimes, as though the wind just might blow her in any direction, but as soon as she sees a loved one, the wind is irrelevant.  Her pace fills with energy and purpose as she moves towards the person that must be held dear somewhere in her heart.
Some days it's a flowing sweater, some days it's a tee and bright, poppy tennis shoes.  The vocal chords she strikes are used to say deep things, soft things, sweet things, funny things, encouraging things.  Yes, she is kind.  When pushed, however, she rises to a place that moves everyone to respect her.  Her hair clears from her eyes, her doubt clears from her voice, and she knows what she is talking about.  One would be wise to never mess with her friends.  If you mess with her, she may let it go, but the moment your comment lowers someone in her arms, it's over.  The defense she maintains for her friends is unwavering.
She knows Him.  She's holding on.