The anniversary present

| March 07, 2006

Ginny flipped down the sun visor with its little mirror and saw what the wind had done to her hair.

“Oh, you are just a cruel man!” She laughed and grabbed a brush from the side pocket of her door and jerked it through her hair.

Ginny opened her eyes to the dark night, laughter still tugging at her lips and echoing in her heart. A ray of moonlight illuminated the empty pillow beside her – empty six long months now since Jake’s car had gone over the embankment and exploded. Suicide, the authorities had said. He hadn’t tried to brake at all. The dusty, long-stilled KW sat in the yard – a ghost of times past – its wheels a trellis for honeysuckle and the smokestack a haven for a family of robins.

Ginny sighed and held a hand to her chest as if it might ease the ache. She slid her feet into a worn pair of slippers and softly slip-slapped her way across the hardwood floor to the moon-bright kitchen. With mindless motions she reached for coffee, filled the pot with water and leaned against the counter as the aroma filled the house. Early morning coffee while the sun was coming up had always been one of her and Jake’s favorite things to do. Everything was a memory; there was nowhere to turn to escape the memories, to escape Jake. He was in the house they had built together, in the yard they had planned and planted together, in the truck, sitting idle, that they had driven together.

She knew Jake would hate to see his truck sitting in the yard, dirty and rusting. She knew the children hated it

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