Brecken:

This one's for you, gorgeous . . .

Brecken is the most marvelous girl I know, or even know of. She is perhaps the closest thing to a walking, talking, and breathing angel I have ever come, or come to and realized it. It's kind of hard to imagine the world without her now, because I'm convinced that there's some good here somewhere, as I long as I know she's here. It warms my heart and brings a smile to my face to think of her happy, and it dampens my soul in a crystal winter to think of her sad. I'm a different person for knowing her, and a better man, I think, for loving her. I hope and pray that I can continue to do so in peace, to the best of my ability.

Oh, yeah. She's hot, too. I'm not talking just "look-at-that-chick" hot, I'm talking "there-goes-the-woman-I-can't-keep-my-eyes-off-because-they're-magnetically-drawn-to-her" kind of hot. This is a girl who makes sweats look like . . . well, suffice it to say that she looks good in anything. Good? Spectacular. Stunning. Five stars. All the time. Legs that go on forever, and a figure to put . . . well, any other female to shame. And a smile . . . a smile like it was made for movies. A little sparkle, and lots of charm, and oh-so-much appeal and . . .glamour. This girl's got it, and got it all . . .

Ah, yes, the beauty of . . . well, I was thinking of something more poetic to say, but I believe that "Brecken" would be the best choice here. "The beauty of Brecken." The critics agree: ***** [five stars].

I wish I was more creative, but I'm not really that good, so I'm just going to try my best to flatter this girl. Here goes nothing:

Brecken is a really modest girl, in that about half the time she evades my compliments. I suppose that I'm not really that sweet, in that I don't compliment her as much as I should, but I'm trying to pick up my own slack a little bit here. She's . . . beautiful. There's no real word in the English language to get accross the idea that this stands for. Kind of the way the word "Love" doesn't hold the special significance that it really needs.

Imagine, if you will, this situation: You walk down the street, and you pass by a picturesque park on your way back to work from lunch. You're walking to wherever it is that you're going, and the grass is green, you're walking on a sidewalk that has been meticulously maintained, without all the black gum spots on it, and the full bloom and blossom of spring has suffused the very atmosphere with . . . a feeling. Just, that lively feeling, that can be associated with green, and insects, and a light breeze that's just enough to make you think of the good times.

There are people everywhere, on the other side of the busy street, which is bounded by tall, horizon-obliterating, and sturdy-looking gray buildings, going about their business. There are cars in the street, going quickly to and from, and whizzing by faster than they really should. But, it's a normal day in life. Nothing is wrong.

There are people on this side of the street, too, the kind that you would think of as being more of "park people," the ones who you would see walking in the park, or walking on the street, and simply know that they're going to the park. And there are the trees, green trees, with the brown bark, the ones that have been let to grow, but carefully tended over years until they look exactly what a tree should look like, with the branches situated just so, and some of them looking just like the lollipops in children's drawings. There are geese by a nearby pond, and bikers, zipping by the pedestrians passing through.

And there's a bench. There are benches all over the place, but there's this particular bench, which has absolutely nothing special about it. Wrought iron ends, the faded wood planks for seats. But, through the people passing by, you can see this girl, sitting on the bench. She's not attired in the red dress, she's not wearing anything flashy, and there's nothing that would make any other person stick out about her, except . . . her. She's got a kind of non-chalant look to her, and the world doesn't seem to pass her by, but she seems to be passing everyone else, and leaving them in the dust. She runs her hand through her hair, straight back, and when her hand drops back, her hair is perfect. The scenery, the bustle, the people, the geese, the trees, the beautiful greenery, with the flowers and the air of life surounding is simply washed out, a faded watercolor background to this one bench, that might well be the most spectacular thing in sight.

Without a doubt, without the merest glimmer of it, she stands out. Not because she's style, but it helps, and not because she's got a kind of magnetic presence, but . . . because she's gorgeous, and it shows.

I love her -- beyond words and beyond conception -- and I hope it shows.