He knows a sweep of gratitude, soft as another voice, and so wide and deep he believes he might drown in it. But he feels fearless, too, ready to be swept away on that unceasing current. Sitting with this woman who was—who is—so precious, though he cannot form the thought of why.
“So strange,” he murmurs.
“What?” she asks almost languidly.
“That we …” He lifts his arm in a generous wide gesture, a blithe circle. “Are. What’s so …” He lets his hand settle softly back in his lap like a petal dropping from a rose. “Is.
“I’ll be leaving soon,” he announces suddenly, more talkative than he’s been in weeks.
“Leaving?” she echoes, leaning in. “Oh, Dad—”
He frowns a fatherly stern warning. “I must, not. Say no.”
“Okay,” she answers at last, taking his hand in hers. “All right.”
“Each … breeze,” he says, watching the ripple of the bright, unfurling leaves, “will be me, missing. You.”
Smiling ruefully, she plays along, “And who says that, Dad? What character? Which play?”
“Play?” he echoes, perplexed. He shakes his head, momentarily nearly disturbed. “No … play.” Gazing into her eyes at the green world reflected there, he answers, “Only, I.”
THE END
Acknowledgments
Great thanks to my stalwart early readers: Cal Barksdale, Marc Bojanowski, Hannah Fisher, Ray Holley, Sharon O’Dair, Ken Rodgers, Neal Swain, Sean Swift, Patti Trimble—and especially Susan M. Gaines, Gayle Greene, and Elizabeth Wales.
And to my extended family’s four generations of Shakespeare aficionados: Leonard and Virginia Hegland; Douglas Fisher; Hannah Fisher and Alex Voorhies; Tessa and Maggie Padilla Fisher; Garth Fisher; Heather Fisher and Russell, Ella, Clara, Lily and Celeste Shapiro; Caleb Thompson; Robert Thompson and Melanie Thornton; Aaron Rosewater; Adele Levin; and Renee, Kurt, Anya, and Georgia Mammen.
Jean Hegland, Still Time
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