Dried mud stains the bottom of my mothers dress stolen from the closet less than two hours ago. Its blue cut-off near my heels in a cracked brown. My boots, old and filled with holes, a patchwork of fabric hanging to reveal the wear of years spent in the country; a childhood of kicking rocks; a childhood of dancing with the forlorn who'd find themselves paired with my heavy footed steps. 

I am to be merry'd off to a man whose breadwon crust would feed my family for generations. The mere scraps enough to sustain my sisters. Yet, my feet have not grown since days spent by the stream. Its shine a mirror of my youth, my idleity. 

He rode tall and steadfast on horseback. Hoofs rocking the dandelions’ seed into the air as if a gust of wind had made the summer air glitter with false snow. He sat feet above me, mirrored by the once rushing stream now calm. His eyes were blue in the water, a sea of stories lived. 

Looking into mine, the stream left, only our future remained. I saw in him my siblings huddled by the door listening to my proposal. A plot of land for ourselves as they held hands and circled cheeks filled with rosy. 

We met by the river, our calm, loving river. He took me by my hand and kissed me sweet as ripe plum. Sweetened with the scent of ourselves, I no longer felt inclined to stand by waiting. He picked a wallflower and gently smelled its pollination. 

Near the end of summer, nearer my fifteenth birthday, we met once more. He had business South of London far beyond the rolls of hill and tree that marked our river. "Tomorrow,” he told me. 

And so it was. I went in my mother’s best dress, towards our careless stream and in its rain-flooded reflection as the mud turned to dirt around my feet I no longer recognized the woman in its mirror. Her eyes, a deep blue in its water. Yet, my eyes are brown. And all the shine of the summer air fell. Next year's bloom. And as it began to rain I saw that reflection learn. Loving is painless, and there's no such thing as a painless lesson.