A Wet Knot Is Harder to Untie

Seconds before the overcast let loose on the forest, just before we ducked into a small potting shed at Rutgers Gardens, there is a picture of Lib, only minutes my wife, in the mist, standing expectantly beneath a tree on a circle of stone by the coy pond, floating in her dress between ferns with a red sash tied around her waist--a picture that no one will ever get to see, but is preserved perfectly and forever for me.