by Eden Maguire
“You forgot your shoes,” Phoenix reminded me when we reached the top of the hill. There was no shadow from the tall water tower, only a slight stirring of wind through the golden aspens.
I shrugged then glanced back down at the house and barn—the rusted red roofs, the weathered log walls and the barn door still left to bang, open-shut, open-shut. It looked, as it had in the beginning, as if no one had disturbed the place in a hundred years.
I know the human heart is mechanical—made up of muscle chambers, valves and tubes. I’ve sat through science class, seen it on medical dramas on TV, red, raw and pumping.
So where does the feeling I had on that ridge come from, holding fiercely to Phoenix in those last moments before our hour was up?
A feeling so strong it swept me away, kissing him and feeling him so close, knowing that he meant everything in the world to me and always would.
We were part of that wild hillside. Our spirits were in the wind and the sky, the rustling leaves.
Phoenix didn’t speak. His lips touched mine one last time, his embrace slackened. He left me with a look so full of longing that my heart melted and it was all I could do to stop myself from running after him.
But I heard wings beating softly—Hunter’s warning. I stayed where I was, watching Phoenix go, knowing I would soon be back.