she swept the crimson petals, that had fallen to the table, into her hand. their delicacy felt light, as they overflowed the space permitted.
she looked up from her hand and her gaze fell on him sitting across the room. he was reading, engrossed in his book – words that tangled a web of a story.
these petals were them she realized. every year they’d been “them” was represented here in the palm of her hand. every crushing, every building up, every falling, every changing of seasons & paths, every wilt. she looked at them again. she knew they were just as fragile as the red flesh of flowers. this last year had proved that repeatedly.
she looked at him again and smiled. she loved him more than he knew, more than she could begin to express in words or art. he looked up from his book and caught her eye, asked if she needed him. she said no, but her heart said always.
she turned her hand and watched as the petals tumbled gracefully back to the table. ‘perhaps a few days more here isn’t such a bad thing.’ she thought.
Saturday Stories: A (weekly) feature on PrudyChick.com. All stories are written by Prudence Landis [unless otherwise noted as a guest post]. Photo credit: Prudence Landis
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Monday marks 13 years of marriage. Over this last year we’ve been reminded how delicate love & marriage is. I love this man more than simple or complex words could express. He is not only my better half, but makes me better in turn. He has been my best friend for 17 years and I am delighted to call myself his wife.
Happy anniversary my beloved. ♥
