An Epilogue of Different Sorts
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Maple
Three paintings hang above my marriage bed.
The first, a wedding on a cloud. The bride a wish the groom hopes will come true. The groom a dream she can’t believe is happening.
The second, a library lit with golden evening rays. A husband sobs. A wife comforts. A choice has been made.
The third, a moonlit renewal. A wish has come true. A dream has been realized.
Choices have begotten love, and the other way around.
I stand on my bed with a tiny paintbrush in my hand and dab at the first painting. Almost done…
“That’s much better,” my husband says, surveying my handiwork even as he reaches to distract me from it.
“The red was a little glaring,” I agree. “Gold suits you.”
“You suit me,” he says, tossing my brush carelessly across the room. It lands on our tablecloth, adding a memory to the many as he pulls me down into our bed.
“I love you,” I laugh, falling over him.
“I love you,” he replies, pulling my mouth to his.
And then we choose that love, hot and sweet and all ours, for the rest of our lives.
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