At a Distance
The day is balmy and serene. Drops of dew are glimmering on the neat lawns and wispy weeping willow boughs, refusing to vanish in the silvery light of a cloud-hooded sun. A mourning dove's melancholy coo breaks the solitary crunching of my feet on gravel. The flowers in my hand suddenly look insignificant and puny compared to the luscious plots of flowers, ferns, and shrubs adorning the grounds. Suddenly my mouth is dry. I am pulled back to the day I first met your parents, stern and critical, carefully appraising my poorly fitting suit, my working class slang. None of that matters now, does it darling? I feel for the little black jewel box in my pocket. Safe. Then, a silhouette in the distance, vague outlines taking shape through the veil of early-morning mist. I catch my breath and press forward. Gently, I lower the flowers to the earth, the box containing your lightly-used engagement ring beside them. They belong here, honey. With you. I'll love you at a distance. In the shadow of your granite cross.
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