On Top of the World

Her hand is small in his, delicate. He's always found that slightly amusing, how fragile she seems beside him, because she's not fragile at all. She's loud and unbreakable and sometimes impossible. But next to him, she's fragile. Her hands don't have the wear-and-tear that his does, no calluses or scrapes. Her face isn't hidden by glasses or scars, only freckles. Her hair isn't messy or outrageously black, but red and fiery and just as feisty as she is.

He looks down at the girl next to him, leaning on his shoulder, and smiles. She is beautiful, and he knows a beauty such as this will never cross his path for the rest of eternity. She is like the sunset in front of them, colorful and bright; you can't take your eyes off it.

In the twilight, he squeezes her hand and sighs softly. He wonders if this is how his father felt about his mother. Still feels, even in death.

--

High above, in a covering of clouds, he looks proudly down over his son. He glances at the woman next to him and the ginger hair framing her fair face. She grins back up at him and runs a hand through his own messy, rumpled hair.

"Like father, like son," he says quietly as he bends down to kiss her cheek.