Marlene, 65, is prepared to start over with a kind man, a modest wedding, and the bravery to don a garment that makes her feel beautiful. However, a fire she believed to be long-buried erupts when a peaceful moment turns cruel. This goes beyond a dress. It’s all about visibility.

I never imagined that at 65, I would be getting married again.

Not after burying the man I had hoped to spend my later years with.

I held Paul’s hand as his heartbeat dwindled beneath my fingertips ten years ago while I stood by his bedside. Over the course of our thirty years together, we had a lot of laughter, arguments, and cold dinners due to our incessant chatter.

The home folded in on itself when he passed away, rather than simply becoming quiet.

I did the same.

I never truly recovered from my sadness, although I didn’t wear black for very long. Rather, I placed it under the back row at church, beneath the kitchen radio, and behind my garden gate. I volunteered as a babysitter for my grandchildren, attended choir practices, and copied out magazine recipes for soup that I had never prepared. People remarked that since I persisted, I was strong.

Actually, though, I was just still.

Then Henry showed up.