Willie and Fran liked to picnic on their favorite granite bluff. It overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. Warm summer updrafts carried up the sound of waves below. The last time they visited what they called their “private place,” they made love. It was beautiful. No one noticed, not a soul. Not even the seagulls. A sparkling day, soft sounds lovers make, and the noises from the sea.
Afterword, they edged to the lip of the bluff, looked over, and stared at the shoreline that went on forever in the rocky distance.
“Isn’t this beautiful?” Fran said.
Willie propped his chin on one elbow, and drew in a deep breath. “Yes, honey. It is. I’ve dreamed of this place. A sad dream. One I can’t shake free. I’m in our private peace and I look down from the bluff. I see and hear a wave crash loud against the long shoreline, like a painted flower being ripped apart along its petal length.”
Fran touched his cheek and thought, “How can I not love this man?”
And from that day forward, she wrote to him every Sunday.
Willie came home from Viet Nam three years later. The loss of one his hands and a leg mattered not. They embraced tight, for three full minutes; and bathed each others shoulder with tears of pure love and sweetest joy.
They never returned to their bluff overlooking the ocean. They didn’t have to; their private place was forever locked away, almost sacred, in their hearts.