The music of her touch resonates through the stone. She traces the curvature of its information with pianissimo fingers the way she shyly strummed the song of our first dance on my shoulders.
Notes swirled with pinks and blues and greys play to the tune of Devoted, a spectrum of experience buoyed by the notion. An acrid dolore registers from Father, a title in staccato she argued against including, though she ultimately had no control.
With dolce strokes of her tender chisel, she etches and Husband, then caresses her amendment and tucks the marriage license I’d prepared into a bouquet.