It was a Thursday when the doctor

gave news of the small child's birth.

She was the first girl,

the entire light

in her mother's new world.

Daughter of the mayor,

her name would

turn up in the local paper.

Letters would be written as

townspeople learned of the labor.

It was early in the summer,

birds pecked the dirt,

looking for worms.

The nurse was late for work,

as she was a helper

at the local church.

Times would eventually turn,

but for now, little Pearl

was like a dam waiting to burst.

The curl of her lips

showed her mood was firm.

She was a wave

that would soon be heard.

Quickly, she began to stir,

her eyes starting to blur.

Her mother worried,

feared the worst,

but all Pearl wanted

was someone to

nourish her thirst.

Years later, Pearl would sit,

searching a diner

while summer went quick.

Who was a tourist,

who did she know?

She was dressed

in a purple shirt,

and glamour radiated

down to her toes.

It was the third time

the waiter returned,

this time with Pearl's dinner,

and the courage to earn

her number while the sun

slowly burned.

She drew circles in her journal,

finding peace among the curves,

and encouraged the boy

in thirteen little words.

The next week, she offered

him her hand,

and below the evening sun,

a new journey they began.