Page editors Anissa Clark Madeline Boutwell
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Amber Gaudet Katelyn Garst Krista Simpson Anissa Clark Lacey Cutburth
Daedalian
2018-2019
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Table of Contents Artwork
Arriet 3 Soy una gorda Angelic Vortex pausa Here’s Lookin’ at you, kid 4 en Diana Alvarez
9
Salena Parker
Tongue I keep ignoring the patterns 4 Native Diana Alvarez
10
Anna Galluzzi
Out Of Reach 5 my thoughts while Ruth Monjaras at a Pepboys at Hiding in the greenery 5 8am on a Friday Anna Galluzzi Emily Ramser
Roots 6 Foretold Salena Parker
Spencer G. Williamson
Theater 6 My Family, Measured Salena Parker Sunrise Walk to Work 7 in Hands Garrett Gantt
Petina Powers
Poetry 8
August
9
Laniya Allen
Diana Alvarez
10
11
I thought of my ex tonight
11
Mourning Sun
12
Malak Chamseddine
Lie to me
10
Quante’ Greenlee
2
The Only Permission Required is Your Own
12
Waiting to be Loved Once More
13
Toxicity
14
By Moonlight
15
An Unknown
15
Petina Powers Petina Powers Petina Powers
Shannon Simmons
Spencer G. Williamson
Head Up Little Girl - You Are a Woman NOW 16 Zlata Stankovic-Ramirez
an elegy to what we were
16
Emily Ramser
Stories As We Look Down Garrett Gantt
Black Coffee
Kandice Hines
17 19
3
Arriet
Angelic Vortex
4 Here's Lookin' at you, kid Salena Parker
I keep ignoring the patterns Anna Galluzzi
5
Photo
Out Of Reach Ruth Monjaras
Hiding in the greenery Anna Galluzzi
6 Roots
Salena Parker
Theater
Salena Parker
7
Sunrise Walk to Work Petina Powers
8 Lie to Me Lanyia Allen Tell me you love me, Tell me you'll never leave me, And that I'm the only woman in your life, Lie to Me, Tell me how you never meant to hurt me, And I really was the love of your life, But there's someone else now, And she just so happens to be younger, submissive, and surgical, Lie to Me, Go on, tell me how I didn't feel you leave @ 2a, Come back in @ 6a, And take a phone call @ 6:30a, Then have the nerve to touch me @ 7a with your lil buddy, Lie to Me, Tell me that my tears mean something when I cry-scream at you, That the woman on your phone is just a female friend I haven't met yet, Tell me that when I give you the silent treatment you don't go find treatment somewhere else, Lie to Me, Tell me that when you tuck my hair and caress my face that I'm the only woman you do this to, That when we make love I'm the only woman you do this for, That when we intertwine our fingers and you kiss my forehead it's intentional and not routine, Lie to Me, Tell me that I didn't waste my time, That I didn't spend countless nights rejecting promising DM's because of my love for you, Tell me that all the girls I checked in your comments aren't your side chicks, And that I'm getting just as many heart eye emoji's as @ saymynamezaddy_69,
Lie to Me, Tell me that the ring you gave me isn't repurposed, That the clothes aren't tailored, That the baby isn't yours, Or that it was here before me, Before us, Lie to Me, Tell me you love me and for once in your life actually mean it this time, Hold me like you're actually scared of letting me go, And watching me leave and never coming back, Tell me that our whole relationship wasn't a game that only I was committed to playing, Go on, Lie to Me, You've been doing it for this long don't stop now, Don't be shy now, Lie to Me.
9 August
Diana Alvarez It's midnight. All my friends are either out of town or asleep, but the night calls me. It misses casting it's glorious darkness on me. I decide to grab my dog and a book of noir poems by my favorite Chicana writer Sandra Cisneros called "My Wicked, Wicked Ways" and go to a classic outdoor bar in the little town where I live. Here I drink a grapefruit beer as an homage to a summer coming to an end. Citrusy goodbye kisses. I have a couple of delicious moments where I bask in the beauty of the night, this beer, my spotted dog, the poetry. And then, of course, they show up. "What are you reading?" "What kind of dog is that?" "Can I buy you another?" I knew they'd be here. They always are, and in a way they are a tax that women have to pay for going out at night. But tonight is about a celebration of solitude. I love my friends dearly, but I have to punctuate those moments with alone time. With smutty poems. With frothy beer. With loyal beasts. With dark dark lonely nights.
Soy una gorda en pausa Diana Alvarez
Estoy flaca cierto? Me encanta cuando estoy flaca. Pero no soy flaca. Estoy de visita solamente. Este fin de semana llega mi tren otra ves con destinación Gorda. Tomó el tren de manera de pan y dulce. Prefiero ser gorda. Cuando estoy flaca los hombres no piden permiso cuando haces el amor. Te tiran, te revuelcan. Cuando estoy gorda no pueden. Hacemos el amor y piden permiso. Disculpa señora, será que me podía subírmele encima? Claro papi. Venga pues. La gorda tiene el control.
10 Native Tongue Diana Alvarez
My Latin father tells me that he trusts a white man over a Latin man. That the white man is honest, the Latin man full of malice. I say nothing. I want to say that yes, a Latin man might steal your wallet, but the white man will steal your nation. He will steal your heritage. Your language. Will make your tongue fork. Your own grandchildren will speak his language first. Call it their native tongue. English. With its starchy constants. Like rocks in the mouth. It chips your teeth. Everything ch chh sh shh. Telling you to shut up. Be silent. Shushing you up right to the end. Englishhh.
my thoughts while at Pepboys at 8am on a Friday Emily Ramser my car battery wouldn’t start after work so now I’m sitting at the mechanic and getting eaten by mosquitos, wondering if after the bugs take all my blood if the mechanic will take all my bones for payment so nobody has to worry about to cost of a coffin for me or paying off my student loan debt because there will be no part of me left but all this crappy poetry
Foretold
Spencer G. Williamson Lost inside the soul Your goals only foretold Long forgotten detours Thoughts and hypotheticals I was taught not to frown Time still lays aground But, Past our old town Amusement is allowed Tomorrow is no more flowers turn to coal Stand tall on the dance floor Brandish your beauty, mi amor
11 My Family, Measured in Hands Garrett Gantt I have two hands And ten fingers Crooked, uneven nails Calluses and veins that bulge, Deep lines in my palms, And little cuts that sprout up The second some of them heal. When I look at my hands, I see my father’s hands. Hairy knuckles and scratched skin, Fingers made for a keyboard, That do their work without eyes. His hands were thousands of words Meant to be said. When I look at my hands, I see my mother’s hands. Deft and skillful, Steadier than mine could ever be. Gentle hands, Hands of one who has known pain, And has loved not in spite of it, but because of it. When I look at my hands, I see my sister’s hands. Fast and playful and deliberate, Flat planes of smooth skin And straight fingers. Hands made for finding the way And guiding the rest. When I look at my hands, I see my brother’s hands. Hands that should match my own, But stayed small forever,
A question asked and unanswered. His hands were ghosts, Forever resting over mine. When I look at my hands, I see words and pictures, Painted on pale skin In translucent ink That is only seen up close. And I ask myself: What are these hands for, If not to create something new?
I thought of my ex tonight Malak Chamseddine
I thought of my ex tonight I can feel his breath on my neck I can feel his soft words in my ears The way he would put his hands on my waist and gently trace the lining of my body. I thought of my ex tonight I can feel the venom in his words The anger he’d have towards me The grip he’d have around my neck I thought of my ex tonight The way he held my hand and stole my first kisses I can feel his glasses pressing up against my cheek I can feel his smile when we’re on the phone I thought of my ex tonight The way he held me down and told me to shut up The way he said I was a tease His warm breath against my ear as he told me I felt so tight for him I thought of my ex tonight How he’d tell me I was a waste of gas since I didn’t put out I can feel his fist against my chest I can feel my breath speeding up I thought of my rapist tonight, he was my ex
12 The Only Permission Required is Your Own Petina JD Powers
Quante’ Greenlee
Mourning Sun
She ate them like apples you know Bright red orbs in her hand like beautiful red suns When she bit, the juice would gush and drip Between fingers and down hands ghastly but sweet as she would smile broad nose and full lips would drip with the juice of the summer sun and all to be seen was joy salt and pepper oil and vinegar this is how I remember you I am late to mourn you But I remember
We do not wait for permission. We make our own path. We give ourselves our own opportunities. We work within moral, ethical, legal premises We bulldoze when required We would appreciate your understanding We do not mean your permission We do not need your permission We mean your comprehension We mean do you understand? We know we are magnificent We know we have value We know we will succeed We know we do not “think too much” We know our assessment of your intent is accurate We know you will intellectually appropriate us We know you will artistically appropriate us We know you will financially appropriate us We know you will use us We know you will devalue us We know you will attempt to undermine our self-confidence We know you will not succeed We need to make this clear We know we can do this on our own We will do this on our own, if need be We know you cannot stop us We know our own value We know we are not victims We know we are victors We know the only permission required is our own.
13 Waiting to be Loved Once More Petina Powers
The tinkling of fluted glasses, lifted in salute, as trilling laughter floats across the air. Dress hems brush across my freshly scrubbed floor. Chairs scrape delicately as the ladies take a seat. Hypotenuses, Hypotheses, Hyperboles. Literary debates and spacecraft radiator discussions abound. In heated conversation a chair is decidedly pushed back as it scrapes against the floor. Dreams awakened. Dreams sought. Dreams fulfilled. Heads bent together in quiet conversation asking, “When will we meet again?� Yet, my eyes see no more within this delicately crafted building of life that once gave me such joy. Once filled with all these beauties described, but now no more - no more. I cry out to be loved again. Make me a painted lady once more. Come to me once again. Be my soul. Let your spirts free and seek your dreams. Waiting to be loved once more
14 Toxicity
Petina Powers We are encased under a mildewed dome smeared and smattered with the film of acid rain and cancerous smoke. Distortion upon distortion. The seemingly lovely tendrils reached out to us The venom within thousands of microscopic thorns pricked our soul We were infected With toxins We ourselves Became toxic And, we did not know We had changed Until a vomitus vitriol Expelled itself from our core It spewed forth until we were spent And, then we cried Our soul pitched and hawled As a ship caught in the deep waters of the ocean Amidst a turbulent storm On our knees we beseeched the heavens As we asked forgiveness Ask we implored for an answer How did this happen And, Why? Why? Why? Pawns in an intricate dysfunctional chess game Ongoing Never-ending No checkmate allowed The bubble of doom and destruction Is impermeable We cannot escape intact The lesions grow prolific, dense
What was once life-giving Joy disseminating Oxygen cleansing Is now Devoid of life As useless As sargassum along a national seashore Protected or encaged We cannot remove the noxious beast for fear of penalty So it remains Decaying Rotting the scenery and the air With its putrefaction And The cycle continues We are encased under a mildewed dome smeared and smattered with the film of acid rain and cancerous smoke. Distortion upon distortion. The seemingly lovely tendrils reached out to us The venom within thousands of microscopic thorns pricked our soul We were infected With toxins We ourselves Became toxic And, we did not know We had changed
15 By Moonlight
Shannon Simmons
An Unknown
Spencer G. Williamson
I once met a man I’d heard a lot about He was small, frail, and bald But he wore a Bowlo Top All clad in black with a red tie I saw he wanted to stop by On the bench we talked a while Time seemingly stretched thousands of miles Our topics of discussion ranged far and wide The Truth I learned however Is the love of Family, God, and each other If I listen tonight to the moon, she will say As night grew near we parted ways I am something bigger than anybody’s And for many weeks I had to contemplate imagination, What was that small, fail, bald mans name except. Today I know what signature he bares I never open my mouth at the moments I should speak, His name starts with a C and I’m never bigger than anything except the And is enshrined with six characters dainty little cigarettes I make smoke with. His name is cancer, but do not be afraid By moonlight, I blow rings circle by circle. Our meeting was brief, but valuable all the same Although when I met him If I listen tonight to the moon, she will say I was not sad, feeling bad, nor was I mad I am stronger than the fight, stronger than Heed his warning I know, Hold close what truly matters except. Because one day, cancer might decide to stop I am not the one fighting this spectator sport, And visit with you and I’m never stronger than any man who shoves me to the ground. By moonlight, I collect tears in a mason jar. If I listen tonight to the moon, she will say I am above the results, meaningless prescribed words, except. I am alone in a car, never a rocket, and I’m never above anything except the gravel crumbling underneath the tires. By moonlight, I drink spirit sip by sip.
If I listen tonight to the moon, she will say I am always growing, changing with the tides, except. I am not the one who can see these measurements, and I’m never far away enough to see the gravity of my choices at work. By moonlight, I close my eyes.
16 Head Up Little Girl – You Are a Woman NOW Zlata Stankovic-Ramirez
I’ve overcome a lot, but I am only one Head up little girl, the journey’s just began I’ve seen the evil the world can give, I’ve seen the worst of all, Head up little girl, you are no longer small. I can’t fight day in and out, this fight is beyond my power, Head up woman, you are strong, and now is the hour. I am tired, weak, and done, I can’t go any more, Head up woman, you are mighty, powerful and bold.
Knowing you could vote, work, own, degree and have no FEAR. WAKE UP WOMAN, you are mighty, feel their tears on your cheeks, They ensured that you are less worried about the valleys and more focused on the peeks. They worked their minds, bodies, and souls so that you could WIN, Head up woman, you are strong outside and within.
How? You come from many women who sacrificed it all, They worked so hard to blaze the trail, they truly did it all. They suffered, cried, they fought and died so you could walk your lane, Head up woman, don’t let their sacrifices die with them in vein. You come from women who rebelled, who defied the status quo, They left luxuries for love and life - that was very bold. You come from women who endured and raised their children well, You come from women whose legacies was to help their kids excel. Each woman working hours and hours so that you could soar, So that you could do more, be more, and have even more. They worked, they bit their tongue, but knowing time was near.
an elegy to what we were Emily Ramser
amongst the tire shreds and roadkill feathers scattered along the side of the road on my drive home i wonder if I’ve fallen out of love with you or if you’ve fallen out of love with me or if i just never knew how to love at all and i force my eyes open as my body convulses in a sneeze and for a second i taste you on my tongue all sweet red wine and maple syrup before i cough you out and my phone vibrates on my thigh with a text from you asking if i am ok and i do not know how to respond
17 As We Look Down Garrett Gantt
In every language, there are certain words and phrases that are married to death. For example, when someone loses something, it’s unlikely that anyone around them is going to say “I’m sorry for your loss.” If that same person were to lose someone, though, the phrase would be echoed at them enough to make the words lose meaning in their heads. It’s about connotations, the way cultures link certain words with certain situations and people strengthen those links with their experiences. So when John hears the words “We did everything we could,” crackling at him from the polished transmitter on the control panel, he knows his fate is sealed. “How long?” The woman’s words have reached his ears but not his head, and they’re still miles away from his heart. He keeps his eyes fixed on the blinking red light by the speaker, as it flickers on, and off. On and off. Over and over again. He hopes the numbness lasts, despite himself. It’s better than the truth. “We estimate that you should have about six hours of oxygen left.” The light blinks. On, and off. “I’m sorry, John.” On, and off. “It’s not your fault.” The words are meaningless even to him. On, and off. Another red flash. “You’ll go down in history, you know. Your country will never forget your sacrifice. They’re already throwing around talk about a Congressional Space Medal of Honor.” On, and off. “Elle, tell me the truth. Was it worth it? Did we… did we do it?” On, and off. On, and off. “We did it, John. You did it. Just hold on to that.”
On, and off. She didn’t say whether it was worth it. He wants to think it was. He goes to say something else- what, he’s not even sure, just something to fill the silence, something to let him know that he’s not going to be alone as he dies- but before he can say another word the transmitter starts fizzling, bursts of static filling the small cabin with its unpleasant noise. On, and off. “John-” Her words are drowned out in static. “We-” More static. “Trying- losing-” There’s more, words lost in the white noise that he can’t make out, and eventually no words come through at all, just more static. But it’s even worse when the static fades, and all that’s left is the silence. On, and off. He sits. What else can he do? He lets himself sink to the ground, head in his hands. This was always one of the expected outcomes- but somehow, he’d never truly let himself believe it was a possibility. Maybe it was self-defense. Or maybe it was just human nature- to never really be convinced of their own mortality until they have to face it down. Just as he has to do now. He pulls his head out of his hands, letting it fall back against the hard metal of the wall behind him with a dull thunk. From where he sits he can see out the broad window on the ship’s nose, and he has to admit- there are worse places to die. Outside that window he sees a sea of darkness, darker than the blackest night back home, dappled with little spots of light- a tapestry of fire. If he only moved to the other wall, looked out the other side of the window, he knew he’d see home, somewhere far away, too far for him to see- too far for him to ever see again. He has the best view a dying man could ask for. He doesn’t want to die alone. That’s all he’s thinking
18 about, as he watches the stars drifting by in the darkness outside. But here, he couldn’t be more alone, and staring into the vastness, he couldn’t be any smaller. And then, out of the silence, there’s a sound. A steady clicking, coming from the back of the ship, where he knows for a fact that no device exists that should be making such a sound. It sounds, for everything in the world, like footstepslike the clicking of nails against metal floors. And it gets closer. Closer. He pushes himself up, off the floor. The oxygen hasn’t even thinned, yet, not really- he shouldn’t be hallucinating. There’s nothing nearby to use as a weapon, but there has to be a wayThe clicking stops- just outside the door. He’s paralyzed against the control panel, facing the door. He thinks the sound has stopped, but he doesn’t know- it could very well have just been drowned out by the pounding of the blood in his ears. He swallows thickly. He’s going to die, anyway. What does he have to lose? He takes a step forward, slowly. It only takes a few seconds to cross the room, and then he’s standing in front of the door, and suddenly he wishes he’d moved slower. He takes a deep breath- and reaches out, pressing the button to open the door. He sees nothing. Just the hallway, illuminated by a faint blue glow. There weren’t any blue lights on the ship. He looks down. Sitting on the floor of the hallway, right in front of him, is a dog. Or, what looks like a dog. But it’s faint, like something half-remembered, nearly transparent. A faint blue light seems to emanate off it, as though the dog itself is the source. He steps aside. It walks into the room, the door closing behind it. Once inside, it sits, looking back up at him again. This shouldn’t be happening. Anyone with a reasonable head on their shoulders should realize that this couldn’t possibly be happening. But reasonable heads rarely stay so in the face of certain death. So rather than pinching himself,
he kneels down in front of the animal, who regards him with eyes that shine in its head like the pinpricks of stars outside, eyes that have seen more than he might imagine. He can’t tell what breed it is- it looks part-husky, and maybe part-terrier? A collar is fixed around its neck, with a tag, and he takes it in his hands, turning it over. It’s corporeal, surprisingly enough, even as it seems to be just on the verge of flickering out of existence. The name tag reads, simply, ‘Laika.’ Oh, he thinks, with a flicker of remembrance. It made absolutely no sense at all, but it suddenly made perfect sense. He sits down, and Laika follows, settling next to him with her head on his leg. She’s warm against him. “Did you come so I wouldn’t be alone?” There’s no answer, of course. The first dog in space just huffs out a breath, rolling onto her side. He strokes a hand through her fur. He speaks, one last time, just a whisper of two words“Thank you.” And they wait, together, man and dog. The oxygen starts to thin. Laika climbs onto his lap fully, pressing close. John wraps his arms around her and pulls her towards him, like a child holding a stuffed animal, as he fights off tears, for all the things he’ll never do, for all the sights he’ll never see, for all the people he’ll never say goodbye too. And Laika’s eyes answer, and say in silent kindness I know. I know that it’s scary and dark and it’s getting hot but this time it’s going to be okay. I found you. I found you. You’re not alone. We’re not alone. There was a dog in space that had offered more kindness to humans than they ever had to her. There was a dog who’d had a family on Earth, of men in lab coats who knew that someday they would send her to die. There was a dog who knew without knowing what it meant to be truly brave, who carried more than most humans ever do. There was a dog, and there was a man, and they were together now.
19 And she stays with him, as the air grows thinner still, and his breaths come shallower and shallower. And she stays with him as his eyes slip closed for the last time. And she stays with him as he takes his last breath, alone but never alone, floating in the cosmos. Finally, she stands. She steps off his lap and turns to face him, the man left in space. She reaches out to him, pressing her snout to his cheek. His eyes, eyes that burn like the stars outside, open. **** What was recovered when the ship finally crashed back to the Earth was a matter of public record. It was nothing unexpected- the equipment, damaged but intact, was all in place, as were the personal belongings of astronaut John R. Williams. And in the cockpit, curled up against the wall, they found his body. The ones that saw it said he looked at peace, and that was taken as a small comfort. He hadn’t died afraid, even if he had died alone. The one thing that remained a matter of some debate were his final words, recorded and preserved by the ship’s black box function. The whispered “Thank you,” quiet words of gratitude that echoed across Earth in much more than a whisper. Most people agreed that he was speaking to himself, or, perhaps, to a hallucination brought about from the oxygen deprivation. Of course, there were some who were absolutely positive that extraterrestrial life was somehow involved. But then there were some that knew better. Some who knew that, somewhere out there in the spaces between stars, there was a man, and there was a dog, and they were waiting. Waiting for humanity to be ready to join them, waiting for the rescue mission that had never come for them in life. And they weren’t alone anymore- they never would be again. There are ghosts, waiting in the darkness of space. And though humanity never loved them enough, they never give up on them.
Black Coffee Kandice Hines Things were wrong again. Things were always a little off in the Blair household, but today was especially strange. Stephen, the family cat, jumped off the banister and never quite reached the ground. It was the sound of his irritated meowing that woke up Dirrk. Dirrk was especially irritated and jittery, and he couldn’t stop the bursts of energy that emitted from his fidgeting hands and made the lights inside flicker. But that was normal, as his job as head magic director for the academy was quite stressful. He found Stephen reaching futilely for his water bowl as he flailed his furry paws in the air, mewling his distress. “Oops,” Dirrk murmured, picking up Stephen and setting him down properly again. “That one’s probably my fault. Sorry, Stevie.” It wasn’t until he saw the walls that Dirrk knew something was really wrong. The wall paper crumbled to dust, and the wood paneling beneath began to seep down to the floor like hot taffy. The couch and lamp sagged, and a great moaning rang out from the floor boards as water burbled out of an air vent. Dirrk’s nervous power surges had never done that much damage before. “Miranda!” He called for his wife, heading for the kitchen where he knew she was likely to be. “You have to get out! I think our energy converter is fried. I’ll take a look at it once you and Stephen are safe outside!” The energy converter resided in a dimension parallel to the toaster oven. It filtered the excess energy that one was bound to pick up in a world so magically charged as theirs. It also helped to keep the Dragon Rash at bay, but too much exposure was
20 known to cause excessive wing growth. Miranda sat at the kitchen island. “Hmm?” She hummed sluggishly, not bothering to look at Dirrk, or anything else for that matter, as stirred her coffee absently. Water was flowing from the air vent in the kitchen too. It filled pooled on the floor, filling up quite rapidly now. Dirrk didn’t know why Miranda wasn’t moving. He knew even less why she wasn’t dressed or why her hair stood out in all directions as if she hadn’t brushed it for the entirety of the two centuries they were married. Then he saw it. The coffee Miranda stirred was a deep, murky brown. Dirrk moved quickly. He made his way to the fridge, slugging around in the now knee high, lemon oil and chive scented water as he ducked past a part the roof that sagged much too far down. He ignored the ballooning purple muck that covered everything in the fridge, including the bottom half of the coconut milk. It would have to do. Water splashed around Dirrk as he stomped to his wife. He shook the milk carton, to mix the contents and wrench the growing purple blob from where it seeped onto his hand. “Don’t worry, dear.” He said, entirely to calm himself. “I’ve got you.” He pushed her mug away from a tendril of taffy ceiling and sloshed some milk into the cup. He reached for the honey on the far side of the counter from where Miranda sat and drizzled a glob inside. “Drink it.” Dirrk said. Miranda continued to stir the coffee absently. “Hmm?” She slurred. Cold. The cup was cold. Dirrk rubbed his palms together quickly and placed them around the cup. “C'mon,” he willed his magic. Steam wafted up. The energy in the room shifted. “This smells amazing.” Miranda’s velvety voice was vibrant. When Dirrk looked up again at his beloved wife, she was dressed in her lilac cloak. Her puff of scarlet curly
hair was tied back in a dark green ribbon. Her cheeks were rouged, and kohl lined her eyes in precise pointed lines. Miranda’s nimble fingers closed around the handle. She drank from the mug gingerly and held a deep breath. She let it go. The house reset itself. The walls firmed again, and water drained into the previously clogged abyss where the Blairs kept their compost pile. Dirrk was left soaking wet from his middle to his slippers. The minty smell from Miranda’s magic hung thick in the air. “Babe,” She said around a scone that was suddenly next to them on the island. “Go get dressed for work. Have you seen the time? You’ll be late.” Dirrk smiled lovingly at his wife and kissed her on the forehead. “My dear,” He said. “You look radiant.”