Every year, on their anniversary, Joshua packed two suitcases. Hers he filled with clothes, her favorite knitting needles, and whatever knitting pattern she was working on at the time. In his, he put a light jacket and a heavier one. “Just in case,” he said. Before they went to sleep, he would show her where they were, placed carefully under the bed.
“We can go,” he said every year. “I’m always ready.”
As though Eliza would ever leave the ranch, the animals she loved, the dirt her toes dug into as she hung the washing on the line. As though Eliza didn’t feel the same way about the sun that sank over the western hill, into the ocean hidden behind it.
And every year, on their anniversary, after Joshua had fallen asleep, Eliza got up quietly and unpacked their suitcases, returning the clothes to their drawers, putting away her knitting needles and pattern. She crawled back in bed, and Joshua’s arms tightened around her.
Every year, she said in his ear, “I’ll be here in the morning.”
He always said the same thing. “That’s fine, then. That’s the finest thing in the world.”