She wore a purple gown on her wedding day and he wore a red tie. In the only picture of them from the day, he towers over her with an arm slung around her shoulders. Neither of them are smiling into the camera, into eternity, but there is something friendly about his eyes. White daisies are blooming at her feet, but she carries no flowers.
His shirt sleeves are rolled all the way up to his biceps. The arm hanging free at his side is a thing of beauty, long and golden and muscular. The hand is manly and finely formed. He is a handsome young farmer, cleaned up for a day, taking a wife. She has a creamy glow that makes her seem soft like a lover, but her eyes, thrown into shadow by a high Arkansas sun, hold something in them like flint.