There was word that you were so beautiful that Aphrodite herself was jealous. They said your hair was spun from pure gold and your eyes were filled with clear, blue sky. But you weren’t a mythical being, you were just Isabelle. You were mine, and then you were gone.
We met in the summer of expectations and chaos. You were promised to suitors with far more money in their pocketbooks than I would see in a lifetime. But you didn’t want money, and you didn’t want the men who promised it. You wanted me, and my love, and the small peach farm down the lane. I would never know a greater miracle in the entirety of my life.