Momentous
There were no fireworks. Sparks didn't light up the night sky with their dripping palettes; in fact, it wasn't even night.
A thousand white doves didn't fly into the air, released in a tumult of wings and beak, crowded freedom in a sea of feathers.
No orchestra broke into song, with clashing and swelling harmonies, synchronous as two heartbeats. The cello didn't lull, and the trumpet didn't wail. Silence didn't even have a sound that day.
The earth didn't cease in its spinning, in its tilt. Time didn't stand still. No one paused in their day to notice a shift in the cosmos, to mark the moment with reverent prayer. The seconds ticked by as they always had, as the clock cogs turned and the subway trains careened through the tunnels, oblivious to the day.
The skies didn't open up to bathe them in heavenly rays. Angels didn't sing or strum golden harps, God didn't smile in relief.
Wounds didn't magically heal, and pains still ached. Scars didn't fade.
They weren't dressed in silk and linen. No jewels adorned her long neck. They weren't sipping fine champagne or feeding each other strawberries.
No, they were making the bed. Pulling the cotton sheets into place, not bothering with hospital corners or duvet covers. They were fluffing the pillows and stacking them against the headboard when he told her: "I love you, I love you."