Her hands were never cold.
It didn't matter the time of year, or what we were doing, or where we were.
I've long heard the term "Harlow Gold." I didn't know what it meant until Google gave me the answer, but it fit perfectly, once I saw it. It's basically a white-blonde dye job. She didn't dye; she was simply the palest blonde I ever did see.
She wore her hair in a simple ponytail, mostly. Sometimes she'd try to tease it into a shape, with curls and whirls and whatnot, but mostly, it ended up held back with a simple elastic band.
I was always careful not to let her see me laugh on those days. I think that likely kept me from being stabbed.
She used to tease me, and sometimes, she knew how to make me blush. I didn't mind, though. In the end, I knew she'd let me take her home.
They hand me a folded blue piece of 8.5 x 11 when I walk in the door. It reminds me of the church bulletins from when I was a kid. I hate places like this little Primitive Baptist snuggled up between Savannah and nothing at all.
I always find it odd when they call it a Homecoming. If this is God's house like they say, then it was never really hers. It couldn't be, because she wasn't a hypocrite. Precocious, ferocious, but not pretentious or dishonest.
I recognize guys from our shared youth. Some of them knowingly nod at me. We all loved her, in our way and in our time. We each speak to the husband; she kept no secrets, and he thanks us for coming, even if he doesn't mean it.
I admit being a little uneasy. She was always good at that, and I suppose this is her last joke at my expense. I sit, staring at the back of the man she married while a stranger leads us all in prayer.
I smile and shed a tear. Her hands were never cold in the back of that old Monaco, but now it's all they'll ever be.