Gently sloping hill, seems mountainous. Sky, clear, bright, blue, hurts to look at. Grass, tickling bare feet and hands like ladybugs rushing politely over leaves. Breezes, dainty and full. She can see young ladies in lace and organza dresses, parasols ridiculous, protecting delicate skin from the sun.

She lay there, her head in his lap, afraid to breathe, hearing low, rich cellos from far away. She heard the giggles and squeals of children, chasing monarch butterflies around the lush green lawn. Fingers brushing hair from her temple, rough, callused, musician fingers, careful, as though she might break.

Smooth skin ... soft hair ... the air floated around them like cherubs, whispering blessings to themselves. It was as if the wind had known how long they had been apart, as if it were watching all along. Her hair blew across her cheek, strands spreading out freely, eagle's wings ... preparing to take flight ...

Eyelids fluttered closed ... music wrapped around him like an embrace ... violins ... high ... pleading. A breeze came up, wandered across the lawn, rustling grasses like a mother waking her babies in the morning.

Sunlight smiled on them, as if giving a blessing ... permission. She memorized the palm of his hand with hers, letting her fingertips sink into the grooves. She knew his hands like the flowers knew rain, knew earth. This was bliss. 1