By: Steven Bruce
The mountain wore a crown of starlight.
"We made it," he told her.
They ascended as far as his aged legs permitted.
"I promised you," he said. "Eighteen years late, I know, but here we are on a beautiful night." And he scattered her ashes, the wind twirling her into the ether.
"What a life," he said, watching a small fishing boat drifting across the bay.
He returned to the cabin, drew a hot bath, scraped the grizzled hair from his neck with a straight razor.
At dawn, the sun would rise from the reddish water. The old man wouldn't.