in spring, when the lilacs start to bloom, she puts on her wedding dress.
They were meant to be married in March, on a day that was more lamb and less lion. And it had dawned in perfection. But clear skies and warm breezes do not erase the smudge of abandonment.
So every year, about this time, she pulls it out again, that lovely dress. She cuts some lilacs with care and breaks the stems of tulips. She reminds herself of the promise she made, to never love again. The risk is too great, too disastrous.
