She stood, a breathless sculpture, in the empty ballroom. Endless bars of light from the ceiling high windows stained the floor and barred her exit.
In her mind, she could visualise the starched white tablecloths and perfectly polished cutlery, strategically arranged amongst floral centrepieces, and the crystal glassware that perfectly reflected
the gentle light from the ancient chandeliers and white church candles.
She could faintly hear the soft cadences of the string quartet, and the laughter and the clinking of glasses and she breathed in deeply, absorbing the faint scent of white freesia, pink rose, babies breath.
She admired the colour matched napkins and the hand written place cards embossed with names in a Celtic font. Sarah and Michael. Sarah.
Running her hand over her heavy wool jacket, her fingers brushed soft white satin, hand beaded with a thousand tiny crystals, that dispersed the light and her happiness on their perfect day.
Now her perfect day.