The man I love

whose eyes look out from that painting on our bedroom wall, and whose purple-clad shoulder hides the rest of his face, rose early and went down to the flower district to choose his blooms. It's Easter, and as he always does, he is doing the altar arrangements for Easter Sunday service in honor of his mother, four years gone now.

His mom used to teach flower arranging, and he took his first class in that fine art with her, after learning that a young lady he was interested in was also taking the class. He was a teen, then. He is a master, now. He used tropical flowers—birds of paradise, red and white anthuriums—to create the arrangements, which were beautiful, more so than I have managed to capture here. I will try to get a better photo of them on the altar tomorrow.

Later, we joined our friend for lunch in the outdoor court of Harlem Tavern, and sat under a red umbrella and watched all of humanity walking by, every description of human, while a New Orleans style band played. But it was the sky I wanted to capture, so blue it was. I believe spring has arrived. 

And then, when we came home, my husband declared himself in a way that made me cry, I won't share it here, I will only say it was everything, and then he gave me this Faberge-style purple-enameled egg for Easter, and I love it so, and I love him so.