There were plants out on the curb, not contained in garbage bags, no longer contained by the broken pots that could be seen in the growing mound of potting dirt by the trash bins. Their leaves were dry, the stems were brittle. Roughly veined hands heaved pot after pot onto the pile, each bringing the sound of heartbreak. THUD. CRACK. And potting soil spilled, no longer any use to dying plants, left to be washed away by a coming rain or scuffed to the wind by little kicking feet.

I never thought that house held life. I always heard the yelling and the shouting, the crying pleas: Please. I saw little shoulders stilled by the sound of heavy boots, smiles fading into hooded eyes and little fingers dropping forbidden toys. The windows were dark with curtains drawn when they opened in the night.

And then I watched , that day, those hands throw away a labor of love, pot after pot. And  I looked into eyes that didn't see me.

  His eyes were shining pools of fresh, raw grief. And I could feel it too.
I love her. I love her. I love her, He said to me. And my throat tightened and I had to look away.

The house is silent in the evenings now.

Everyone else is turned and smiling. Smiling at a vision in white, tears shining her eyes, eyes fixed on one, and one only. Only I am not watching her, but watching another pair of eyes, brown eyes that I have come to know so well.

Those eyes have held my smile on the days when I could not bring myself to smile, could not make my face to do the one things those eyes asked me to do. Those eyes have never held judgement when they beheld the parts of me even I shrunk from. And those arms have held my broken heart in so many ways, and so many moments.

She gazes up at him, a smile playing at her lips.

And he looks at her, only her, like he'd never looked at anyone else before.

He comes up behind me as I lie still, curled up in the bed."Shhhh," he whispers, though I haven't moved, haven't said a thing.
I wanted to get up when he came in; when I heard the door open behind me. Wanted to occupy myself to hide my tears, my frustration, my pain. But he keeps telling me: Marriage is about showing me all the parts of you that you don't let anyone else see.
So I lie still.
And my tears drip down his arm that is curled around my head, cupping the crown of my head in his palm.
"I love you, baby girl." He punctuates his whispered words with kisses to my temple: "Always, always, always."