by ST, mid 1980s
You're not a beauty, I'm sure you've discovered; and yet you have a certain "down-to-earth beauty" (not quite as down-to-earth as a mud fence . . . perhaps a stone fence--yes, I think so: you've been accused of never smiling, as you know). So you can pretend, sometimes, at least, that really you have a kind of good looks. Anyway, it's what's inside that counts, they say. I've known you in an ugly mood, and not liked you very much. I've been hurt by your selfishness, saddened by your depression, I've certainly suffered for your lack of diligence, but . . . when I set you in the balance, the scale seems to tip your way. Maybe I'm prejudiced, but I think you have a good heart-- at least you try--most of the time. And . . . once I saw--after a profound experience-- you had something left in your eye after the tears had gone: I think it was a twinkle, or a light; it was something like a star . . . far away . . . and from the same origin.
My Stories 