Henry Ford

She carries herself in an effortless way. It is casual and sophisticated; an "understated elegance." I catch myself fixing my shoulders, straightening my back, and resting my arms at my side with intention when I see her stroll along the sidewalk. She gazes at the beautiful world around her; seemingly oblivious, yet so engaged, aware, and interested. Sitting down over a cup of coffee, black, of course, with her is magical. She captures your attention with ease. She holds you with her stories as if she is supplying to you your last breath. You need to listen because you want to. You respect her. As she exuberantly enters herself into each story that is told, you can touch the emotion. Her words are no longer words, her stories no longer elusive, like most.  Her words slip off the tongue so sweetly, in such an easy and exquisite manner. You can see everything seeping through her purposefully positioned words from black and white to color. She holds with you respectful eye contact throughout the story, to let you know she cares. She cares that she is sharing this story with you. She will look you gently, but firmly in your eyes, then she will look away. She looks away in an angled gaze upward, with a transparent sparkle in both olive green eyes, but today they are slightly gray. Her eyes blink a split second longer than her average blink, and gives you the sensation that she is living her story again as every word falls off her tongue. You get this great sinking feeling, a lump in your throat, and a sparkle in your eye like hers. You know how special these stories are to her and you want her to know they are special to you, too. You can listen to them over and over again for the sixteenth time and leave feeling like it was your first. The perspective in which you see the world has changed for the better.