The fragranced air held high, still so sickeningly sweet from the remnants of her last breath. It was in this precise moment that I remembered the first time I saw her. With her face settled upon her palm, she held a blank expression, not one of monotony but one of pensiveness.

She had a strong, chiseled face, as though sculpted by Michelangelo himself. And by God was she beautiful. With long blonde locks, tunnel curls, that did nothing but intensify that azure gaze of hers. Her face, although rigid, held an obscure lightness to it shown by the gentle daub of pink tones she wore happily.

And thus, I continued to watch, from the corner of my eye, as she sighed and scruffled, wrapping her wavy locks around her finger as she did so. In my opinion, she wasn't too beautiful. Pleasing to the eyes, she was; however, it did not diminish her. She was beautiful in other ways as well. She loved to sew and read and hold conversation whenever the opportunity arose. And when she walked, she walked with an air about her that left the whole room in a trance. She did this often, never allowing herself to stay within the confines of a bench.

She was adventurous and willing, sure and courteous, never speaking by a wicked tongue. And she listened; she listened to all that was around her, keeping herself occupied within others other than herself. Perhaps this was her flaw. She loved all apart from herself. Ever conscious of some burden she bore.

I recall an hourglass that stood upon the table, sand whistling through to the bottom. As though it was an eerie reminder of our time soon to be lost. Of course, I paid no attention to its dreadful phylactery. I lived for the moment, which in return, became a moment gone.

She always was incandescently bright, perhaps even more so than the moon itself. By the light of his good graces did she become so bright. And inconsolably, by the strength in his vices would she, also, lose her life.

Hour by hour, the sand streamed to the bottom, covering every inch of its carapace. Until one moment, it stopped. As did her heart.

Since then I've pondered the existence of such a moment. Is its life merely a half-life? Perhaps. And even still, within every remembrance, the memory blurs ever more so than it had previously. Soon enough, the memory itself will become forgotten and I fear that so.

Perhaps, it is my old eyes that are the half-life. I don't see like I used to. I never saw the pain Amalie hid oh so well. She was the statuette of misery, forever veiling a most vehement flood behind the shutters of her eyelids.

I look upon her and smile. I suppose this was the courage I never knew of. I always knew she had this courage yet I never did look past the wall.

She lied peacefully, as though sleeping, still beautiful, even now, in the wrappings of her providence. It is clear that God, himself, doted upon her. Such a malady would ravage any other corpse other than hers. Yet there appeared to be nothing, not one scar, not one permanent, explicable trace of her mortality.

She lies beneath the cypress tree now yet I'm sure that she resides somewhere else entirely, somewhere where the green meadows grow along the flowing brook of our lives, the great divide.

I know she stands on the other side waiting for me with a halo, adorning her as though some fervent coronet, illustrious and gold, light as a feather, as willing as ever. And perched on her shoulders remains to be the two most angelic like wings, so when the time draws near, she may ascend to the highest peaks of quintessence beyond the pearly gates of Heaven, where she will wait for me ever long.