Fifteen years she waited, betrothed, for this day.
The aunts started before daybreak, using the special spices, saved all this time; bought with money squirreled away, when it could be.
They painted her hands, a most sacred women’s ritual.
She sat there patiently. The sun set, the moon rose.
He never came.
Oh, the shame!
The picture is not mine, I found it ages ago on the net somewhere.
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