Whatever Little Miss Hobbs may be, whether angel or human (though I have expressed to you that she is, in fact, human) she always desired the finer things in life. Such cliché manners of describing cliché characters, I know, but as I said, this is not of fictitious origin.
Last I met her, we were deciding on some place to be. Most decide on a place to go, but she and I prefer living each day, moment by moment, therefore not wanting to go, but simply to be.
We had not seen each other in quite some time, and I daresay the last time I saw her, I dubbed her with the title of Little Miss Hobbs, as she seemed adorable in a way that a title ought to express, and Innocence was truly her lot. Eyes, bright as the glint of evening sun off a swingset in a Midwest suburb in July, and voice both knowing and guessing, she was always the Ideal.
When we reunited, however, there was a speck of something different. I do not like to think, nor do I believe, she was touched by Darkness. I didn’t know what to think when we initially embraced and her half-smile forsook my memory of her, but as you shall see, it was not Darkness inside her. However, I do not doubt it cloaked her, even coated her breath. Her brows furrowed further than I had e’er seen them, and in a way that I didn’t know if they could un-furrow. Her voice, a bit more raspy and laden with a heaviness.
Life had been cruel to her, and understandably so. She did not deserve the unfortunate mishappenings that overwhelmed her, but these days, the world is all too eager to snuff out Innocence, replace it with Darkness, and claim the Wisdom of Hate is just the way of the world. She knows better than that, and that much I could see break through her weary smile and in her hopeful eyes. That flame inside her is flickering – but an ember of its former self, but the fact of the matter is that it has not yet been extinguished, and by God, that is the most difficult test one must overcome to be even remotely like Little Miss Hobbs.
After our greeting, we walked around in an abandoned downtown-esque area that was rather pleasant, albeit hot and humid. We came across a coffee shop and I, mistaking her countenance for mere tiredness, suggested we grab a cup. We poked out heads into a small shop, no more than twenty feet wide by fifty deep, and plenty tall, to inquire about the operating hours. We were greeted by a rather elderly man with a round, bald head, slumped only slightly at the shoulders, eyes weighed by his years of experience, skin brown like a Pacific islander, and demeanor like that of a grandfather eager to tell a story. He had closed up shop two and a half hours earlier, but told us he often brewed for willing customers after hours, and seemed to truly enjoy his little space. Greg greeted Little Miss Hobbs and me at the counter as we discussed things of the world and the weather, suggesting item after item on the menu, closing in on what beverage would be most suitable for a day, place, and time like that.
Greg was the most independent thinking and living human I’ve met in quite some time, after Miss Hobbs, of course, and admitted to running the shop all by himself for reasons all just and good for many years. His favorite part, he said, was the company. I beg to offer the idea that it was his company that made other people pleasant for conversing with. The atmosphere he provided did not have room for anything less than pleasantries, jokes, and lighthearted conversation. Mayhaps one or two deep conversations could be had, but only if they concluded in a manner where all might still smile.
After a few more moments in the shop, Little Miss Hobbs and I walked the side-streets, discussing Greg and our best wishes for him and all those like him (though, I admit, I do not believe there are many in this world like him), and decided where next to be.
In her seemingly infinite wit and Wisdom, she decided the best place was atop, or slightly below the top, of a hillside at an adorable place known as Roosevelt Park. She always seems to know where to be, and when, though I daresay she did not know the grandeur the world would display itself in, as we were both taken aback in gasps and tears.
The fire that lit the sunsetting sky that evening was every ounce of what you could ever measure Perfect in. Even moreso was sitting next to Little Miss Hobbs in that moment. She saw the Beauty in the world in a way that few ever do, but that resonates in my heart. It was there, on that hillside with the sunset and volcano backdrop, that she told me just a few of the causes of her sadness. A broken heart, a haunting past, and nightmares that, rather than weakening her, I think prove her strength, Love, and consideration for others above herself. I don’t know if she sees it that way, but I refuse to let go of my view of her.
She is only human, she is imperfect, but she is still wonderful…
She’s the type of person who pours you a cup of tea, and after an hour of sitting there, you realize the tea’s gone cold yet you’re still warm inside.