For her, it was never a question of if things would get better, but when.
And her friends knew that about her, too. They were accustomed to how she could always find the slightest yellow-gold fissure among the storm clouds.
That’s where she’d focus, even if it meant the last remaining drops might find their way into her hazel eyes.
Things hadn’t been easy for her. Hardship, loss, and change never are. But things get better.
“They always do,” she would often say, peppering their downcast chatter with her characteristic optimism.
And while some didn’t take her seriously, some took heart, making her words worth while.
Taking heed of her own words now, she looked up and searched for yellow-gold.