Thou hast traced my journey and my resting places, and art familiar with all my paths.
—Psalm 139:3
“It’s all settled then.” The young woman’s determined tone lingered in the soft spring air. Cross-legged on the ground, she plucked at the short grass that clothed the grave.
“Yep.” The man unfolded lanky arms and legs and stood. The pronounced angles of teenage years contrasted with the mature weariness etched in his jaw.
She turned her petite face toward the barren cornfields. A light breeze played with her long blonde hair. “It’s not what we planned.”
“But it’s for the best.”
“I’m so sick of that platitude.”
He stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and twisted his mouth. “You’re happy with the tombstone?”
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, now studying the upright slab of white marble. “And you’re okay with the name?”
“Mm-hmm. It’s appropriate, the two last names.”
“Remember ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’?” She looked up at him, a sparkle erasing the flatness of her eyes.
A corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Senior English. I remember you liked it, and I got a D on the test.”
“It reminds me of that. The stone links us together forever, engraved with our names, but,” her eyes went dead again, “we’re suspended there. Not together in reality.”
Neither spoke for a few moments.
“Maggie,” he said, “think of it as a road marker, pointing us in different directions. We traveled this far together, but now there’s a fork in the road.”
“I like my ode better.”
“Bullheaded.” His tone teased. “I’ll take you home.”
She stood and glanced at the nearby pickup. “Thanks, but I need to walk.” She patted the front of her loose overblouse.
“All right.”
There was an awkwardness in their stance as they looked at each other.
She swallowed, then shrugged. “Well, have a nice life, Neil.”
He held out his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. “You, too, Mags. You, too.”