A holiday toast to my husband:
Brighter than the shade of rubies in my ears, deeper than the scarlet smeared on my lips, richer than the aged merlot in my glass, is the love my crimson heart carries for you after sixteen Christmases together.
Photo courtesy of Unsplash
Seven pets, at least, are buried where my sister and I played, digging and swinging without fearing the future.
The sandbox, swings, and siblings left, tears fell, weeds overgrew. But five dogs, a bunny, and a bird named Lucky remind us of life’s fragility, even after so many years.
Photo by Brandon Couch on Unsplash
I had three weeks’ notice to plan for the trip to see my sister become a wife, but it only took two days for the mailman to deliver my lace dress. I rummaged through my daughters’ and husband’s closets for something to match.
The ten-hour drive resulted in my children fighting over which movies to watch and who got to eat the last gummy shark. They also shared laughter from the bottom of their bellies.
In Toledo, the groom found the rings he lost, and I ran across a sheet of ice to collect the bouquets I forgot in the car. The bride smiled.
After two families tied a bow to become one, we celebrated with pasta and Peroni.
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash
Join me at this week’s YeahWrite challenge!
We shared an underdressed kiss standing on the pavement in front of the airport. Bones rattled from February chill; breath turned misty like my eyes.
“Good luck,” I whispered into Justin’s shoulder as I untangled my arms from his back. “Maybe this will be the one.”
“Thanks.” He half smiled. “See you tomorrow.”
Justin boarded a New York-bound plane wearing his only suit pressed into neat lines.
I returned to our Detroit home with cold feet.
Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash
Ornaments hung from the spruce; twinkling lights on the roof; earrings dangling from my lobes; new polish painted on my toes; sequins weighing down my dress; borrowed cufflinks on his wrists; champagne fizzing in our cups; to eat, we have a roasted duck; parquet dance floor filled with friends:
These days we will call our best.
Photo courtesy of Unsplash.
Your voices are sweet syrup, but you cut with razor blade tongues. I hear your slimy snickers and see your wicked eyes. I watch my back for stones and sticks hidden in your Prada bags.
You don’t have to pretend. I don’t like you either.
Photo courtesy of Pexels
The cliff juts out below like razor blades slicing up the angry water. I kick a rock over the edge.
I hate this place. You didn’t.
I pull the cardboard box from my jacket and choke back tears.
All we have left are memories.
I open the box and dump the contents on the place you proposed. When I do, a breeze blows in. The ashes fall lightly on me. I smile.
Perhaps even now you will never leave my side.
Photo courtesy of Stocksnap.io.
In response to this week’s microprose challenge over at Yeah Write.