Who is she?
This question is the first of so many, or at least within the first hundred.
Who is she?
Something asks you this, in a hush tone, cold on your neck hairs, a little wistful in tone and more than a little demanding.
Who is she?
So you clear your head and burrow in, ready to attempt an answer. Who is she? Well, she didn't come to life by herself. You know that much. Like any living thing, she had a beginning spark, even if it was as tiny as a tea candle or as big and bright as a forest fire. But you know it wasn't that big. The tea candle’s more likely, a little votive, unassuming and nonthreatening.
Who is she? Once the spark started, somebody had to poke it, keep it alive, like a camper, a real mountain man who knows what he’s doing. And the second you realize somebody had to keep it alive, you know that that somebody was you.
Guilt. Like a crumbling building, you start to collapse in on yourself from the pure guilt. If you were that one that kept her alive, you must have had a reason, right? Which means you must know her. Nobody saves a total stranger. Especially they don’t take good care of them, carefully holding them in the palm of their hand, nursing them back to health. That’s what you did with her. You coddled her, like a baby, and you didn't even understand who she was.
Who is she? Well, what does she look like. She is raw beauty, harsh, and untouched. She is made of every possibility, and every improbability. And what’s that? A pendant, around her neckline, peeking up from under her collar. A knife. Tiny, silver, perfect. It can’t be told if she is tall or short, because she is like a third graders drawings; she just fades out past the waist. Past your waist.
Who is she? She got to know you too well. She got to be so many things at once; friend, at first, and then more firm, like an aunt, and then more insistent, like a sister, and then more controlling like a mother. Nobody should get to be all that at once. It goes against so many rules; she out to be an outlaw. But that would be like asking a young child to leave his mother before he’s ready; it just wouldn't be right to send her away. You are,  after all, still the one stoking the flame.
Who is she? She fooled you into so many things, one of those jokes where you’re the victim but you walk right into it and once you know it, you laugh along with everyone else. Laughing….
She laughs a lot. High pitched, but in control. She tricked you with a sleight of her hand, a shiny silver dollar from behind the ear.
Who is she? She lives inside her case, but doesn't like it. Her case is not right and must be fixed. Were you not encouraged to fix it?
Who is she? Just as the question came upon you, a hush sound, it trickles away, a silk laugh. It prickles your neck hairs, and you never ask it again, because, as mentioned, it was only the first of so many. Not important anymore.