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Title: Still
Still She married late, and she didn’t wear white, and only 12 people were invited. He wasn’t one of them but he came anyway, lurking in the shadows and sending a silent blessing. She never looked his way, but he knew she knew he was there and she stood a little straighter as she took her vows. When her child was born he slipped past security and spent the night by the basinet. He wanted to sing a lullaby, but the only songs he could remember were old Irish drinking songs, so he murmured them softly to the sleeping infant as the moonlight painted shifting patterns on the walls. He laid a snow-white lily on her husband’s grave after the mourners had gone and felt true sorrow; for her, for the child—not really a child any longer—but mostly for this man who had never really known that his wife’s heart had been given at 16. He’d lived a long time and his capacity for pity had grown as his capacity for jealousy had waned. It wasn’t until she clung to life with merely the tips of her fingers that they spoke. He sat by her bedside and knew he looked 29 and she was a dying old woman, but in his heart he held her at 16 and he didn’t care what others saw. He took her hand and felt a lingering strength, so unwilling to depart. She’d always been a fighter; she’d always had to be. He’d asked if she was scared and she didn’t have the strength to speak, but her eyes said she knew he loved her and so she’d never die. He’d kissed her then; forehead, nose, lips, and when he looked at her she had golden hair instead of white and her eyes flashed fire and she still made him weak. “You’re still my girl,” he whispered, and smiled, and brushed away someone’s stupid tear. As it turned out, she had strength enough for one word. “Always,” she breathed, and it was true.
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