by Dale E. Lehman
His words drifted by, careless as the wind. Feeling had abandoned his voice, not at once but like summer slipping into autumn fading into winter.
Her white cane tapped the ground. “Why?”
“Do you know where we are?”
The air smelled of sea and old stone. “Really, Ron. Mission Point.” And she remembered.
Two years ago. The old lighthouse. The tour. She tripped, he caught her, and they laughed their way up centuries-old stone steps and around the catwalk while the sea washed the promontory. They loved and married and traveled and lived. But no longer. What had changed?
He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “To remember. To be happy.”
She heard no happiness.
He led her forward, shells crunching beneath their feet. “Can you smell the sea?”
She inhaled. “Oh my yes!”
Not money. She had freely shared her wealth. Another woman whose eyes could look back?
Ron gently slipped the cane from her hand. His palm pressed on her back, guiding her forward. “I so, so want you to be happy.”
She heard sadness, smelled fear, felt unrelenting pressure on her spine. Her toes touched the edge of the world.
“Must you, Ron?”
She heard tears tracking down his cheeks, smelled salt upon his skin.
She snatched the cane back and twisted about, and the whole world spun as sounded a sickening crack and a cry of surprise, and then nothing, nothing but the sea surging and washing clean the rocks below.
© September 2016 By Dale E. Lehman. All rights reserved. You may share links to this web page, but otherwise copying and redistribution of page content by any method for any purpose without written consent of the author is prohibited.