She walks her fingers over the wood, the tips dancing to a quiet tune at the back of her head: the plucking of a guitar, a solo act in an imaginary concert. And when she presses her hands completely on the rail, the wood under her palms is rougher than she remembers it last. It is worn with rainstorms and whatever else may have aged staggard fine and deep lines onto it's surface. It is a record of time passing: a testament to things that have come before, a promise for the thereafters.
She is not sure why, but she is not as sad as she assumed she would be. He is absent from this scene, and whatever noise of festivity is far away enough for her to only catch the echo of it in the wind. She is wistful instead, filled with fond memories of so many what-have-beens, and because of these, she smiles watching the lights explode in joyous celebration like illuminated petals thrown over shadowed streets.
There is no line now, no dividing horizon that confuses the sea and sky of whether they have just met, or if they are now leaving. Earth and heaven are not separate for once, and the stars seem so close that if she were fanciful still, she might consider climbing the fence to tiptoe on the water's edge in the hopes of catching starlight between her fingers.
- Bill Withrow