hendelar

You claimed the spire of that little church in Norcia as a personal beacon of the Divine, and so it was imperative that we breathe the inside of that chapel. Yes, it must have been God’s will that guided us and so our vows must be exchanged there. It was during the planning of our children’s baptismal rites when we were interrupted by the procession of brown-robed Benedictine monks. How could have we known the abbey was theirs? The joy of your laughter rings as sweetly to me now.

The hills reached into the indigo sky to where olive-blossoms scented the spring warmth. My sweet Josephine, the inspirations of the masters in a thousand Uffici’s are forever fated to mediocrity to the portrait of your perfect beauty, framed exquisite in the moonlit stillness of Lago di Bolsena.

And, you knew.

From within your blackest-brown eyes you reached through my worn collection of paper masks to confront the truth of our tomorrow. At once the language of love was rendered barren, our time left only to tears and the pensive cadence of dwindling steps upon crumbling pebbles.

glh