A Little Helping Hand

Life is different for everyone who lives it. No two people experience the same sensations, emotions or relationships. Every persons life is unique in itself, each of us have our own influences and manipulations as well as manipulators and transgressors. Events happen to us and we forget them. Other people touch our lives and leave us as swiftly as they entered our realm of consciousness. Only the things or people that dramatically change who we are or the paths of our lives or of those close to us, for better or for worse, are remembered. The rest fade into our memory. Each one obviously slightly changes us, but for the most part they disappear without leaving a trace of even their existence. Only the ones that rend the course of our lives from their previous paths, throwing it and us into disarray, have the distinction of being easily recalled. These memories we can hold onto with assurance, these we can remember vividly.

For me, life has been a virtual flood of helping hands. All of my family and friends have always been caring, concerned and helpful towards me. Strangers always seem to like me off the bat as well. And of these people the ones that I have been close to have a place in my heart and I could explain to you any of these people down to a tee. Yet, I do not have the desire to do so. As much as they have influenced and supported me almost none of them have affected me or my life in the afore mentioned manor. Except, of course, my parents but I would feel childish choosing one of them. Hatred is next in line after love. So for the people I hate, well they are few and far between. I can only think of one or two, me ex-brother-in-law being the most prominent. As much as I would enjoy describing that man to you in all his splendid glory, I would rather not give him this slight honor. So moving on past hatred leaves me with few choices for my topic. Yet, there they are. The few strangers I have met and grown fond of. The people I have had an automatic bond with, that have changed me from the start and changed me even more in the end. The most prominent of these being Elizabeth Anne Sherman.

Me Bethé, my high school crush, my first love, a beautiful young lady that I will never forget. She is someone I care deeply for but will probably never see again, which is fine. She is someone that had a great impact on my life, not so much concerning the path I have chosen, but upon the development of myself, my personality. When I first think of her all I see is her deep brown eyes. They were always my favorite feature of hers, they were rich, warm, large pools of hazel light. Innocence glinted and flashed in them all the time. Without reserve I can tell you, she has the eyes of an angel. She really was my brown eyed girl. Her eyes could trap me, her eyes alone could caress me, warm me and calm me. They were open and loving, always calm and understanding and her smile was always quick to appear. And god could she bat those eyes. She was not conceited, or stuck-up, knowing she was beautiful, she was not that petty. But she knew how to use those eyes of hers, at least to affect me. The longer I sit and think of her, the better my mental picture of her becomes, it pulls back, slowly. First expanding to include her smile. A bright vibrant smile. Simple and unremarkable but memorable just the same, a perfect match for her face. Above it rested the cutest little button nose. It was covered with freckles that spread over the top half of her cheeks adding even more to her all-American girl next door look. And beyond this small square of my memory my adoration begins to fade. Not for any particular reason other than that I did not stare at the rest of her nearly as much. Her hair was