my 'sparkling' husband with my mother and I, 1988
You sparkle, Bill, in the way a stray blue thought lights up a quiet room~ not loud, just true. A small brightness, unexpected, like finding a feather caught in the hinge of a day that felt too heavy to lift. You speak, and something in the air shifts~ a soft bound toward calm, toward the kind of peace memory keeps for later. Not brilliance, not blaze, but that gentle shimmer that stays after the words have settled. And I think that’s the real glow~ the way your voice turns the ordinary just slightly, so it opens like a door I didn’t know was waiting.
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