Giverny

 The sun never smiles so warmly as it does in the gardens of Giverny.  Monet had the most wonderful taste for horticulture.  I wished I could name but half of the flowers we saw, but I couldn't even manage one, being so distracted by their variety that recalling them would only make my appreciation meaningless.  Nothing in a name should ever detract from the pleasure of its viewing, or the sense of feeling grounded in its place.  The gardens make you feel so at home that if one were to get lost anywhere on Earth, this would be the place to choose.  

There is one particular alley which shines so radiantly under the sun that a sensational daydream overcame me on viewing it, in which my beloved and I were wed under white arches of hanging bells that rang with matrimony, surrounded on both sides by colorful sheets of flaming roses and clusters of little purple daisies.  The flowers in this alley sing such calming serenades of love that you'd think they were lamenting their long-lost master without ever losing their brilliance.  Imagine what the owners would charge to hold weddings in such an ideal location as this: an artist's muse personified on the Earth, dressed up in empty splendor like a churchyard for casting eternal vows of faith. 

On the path we wandered through groves of bamboo, cherry trees, and the forest of willows which famously overhang his water lily pond.  This was her second visit, and she relished in the delight of the day being twice as bright with half so many people.  Indeed, it felt like we'd struck gold, as the pathways were easy to walk and even the bridges were barren of people.  We found the ultimate setting on a bench at the far end of the pond, offering a view of all the clusters of lily pads that decorate the serene pool.  It looked like something out of a fairy tale, so out of this world with its surreal beauty that it couldn't possibly be real.  For a second it seemed like I'd become the artist and sat in the very same place he had, soaking in the scenery with his senses before delicately relaying them onto the canvas.  It was very near to a religious experience, like many of the others I've had when witnessing breathtaking scenes of nature.  For that entire duration I felt at peace, complete, that nothing could mar the journey now that one of our dreams had come true. 

She loves the work of Monet even more than I do- a rarity that fancies me in a humbling way.  I wouldn't be surprised to find out she'd been created in his mind and come to life at the strokes of his brush, because she is every bit as graceful as they must have been in order to create such soothing mixtures of color.  She is like a rare albino pigeon, at peace in the hanging house of willows, eternally at home among the lilies, and never wanting to leave.