How She Glimmers

She was wearing rhinestones on her shoes when I met her at the spring dance. Oh, how she sparkled as we spun each other around the dance floor.

On our third date we made sweet, fumbling love in the back seat of my car. How she glowed then, in the sweat and the moonlight.

We married at the end of our second year, a small ceremony attended only by family and close friends. Her dress was simple, and white, and in it she outshone the sun.

After twenty-six consecutive hours of labor, she gave birth to our daughter. Reddened and ruddy with exhaustion, she still beamed as the nurse passed the infant into her arms.

As the years passed and youth fell away from our bodies, she would say, Look at me, I’m fading. No, I told her, the sun only sets. It never truly fades.

When she passed, a light went out in the universe.

The funeral home had the carbon of her ashes compressed into five perfect, small diamonds, one for each decade we were together. Oh, how she glimmers.

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