there are things I never said before, that I didn't tell you in the dark when I thought I might remember again without

she wore high heels.
everyday, with silk stockings and her hair pinned up. she was famous for her shoes, daringly unconventional for her age. she and her best friend would wear them everyday and get dressed up like they did when they were twenty, like they did in the twenties. they were beautiful in their heels and their subtle pride.
there are the photographs, they showed me. their explainations are a jumble of sepia faces and names I've heard before. if she was there she might've told me he loved beethoven, that she'd make a pie especailly for him, that he had the most amazing laugh. there were photographs of the farm, of stoic parents with hard hands and soft eyes. children whose futures I already know. her hair was shorter then. when she got married, smiling next to her best friend, she was taller than him. the heels, you know. they loved each other, but you could see that without knowing them, without hearing how kind he was and how she cared without growing up with the stories.
I'm sure there were times that it was not sunny, that their hands were not folded in their laps, that the ribbons came untied and the perfect world the camera saw unravelled.
but she was always beautiful.

ash @ 5:36 PM