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The
Request
By
JoAnn Baca
She had said, “Show me where.” An odd request on an anniversary. He’d
thought that moment was lost in the passing of years. But she had asked
him and he would always do anything she asked.
They climbed over a steep embankment near the road, wary of vehicles or
passersby even at this late hour. He helped her negotiate the steep
decline.
“Here.” He knelt, his fingers tracing over the exact spot, seared into
his memory with all the force of the shock and mystery of his first
sight of her.
She approached and knelt, brushing the weeds with her hand. Her eyes
filled with tears. She turned to him.
“Thank you. I know this must have been difficult for you.”
“For me? But you were the one lying broken here,” he said.
“Here began my new life,” she countered, “here, where you first took me
into your arms.”
She stood up, brushing the leaves from her knees. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
She held up her arms to him.
Knowing now what she wanted, he swept her up and carried her…up the
embankment, into the tunnels, not stopping until he placed her gently on
their bed in the chamber they now shared.
“This path…my path…made my life complete,” she told him.
Then she showed him what she meant.
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