The Golden Shore

They met where their farms did, in a meadow of gold, dotted with dandelions and sprinkled with marigold blooms. Past the farthest ear of corn or stalk of wheat, the meadow hid. And on this meadow grew a spot where the earth bubbled but never broke. And on this hill grew the steadfast behemoth of branch and bark. And after their work was done, they would join together every day at the base of the sturdy oak on the hill. And they danced.

They danced in circles around the oak, their feet blazing through the blades of grass as the wind breathed life into the golden field littered with rays of sunshine. They danced to the music of the meadow, to the melodies of the songbirds overhead, to the chirps of the crickets at sundown. They only parted ways when their parents called them in for supper, and when they slept, they dreamt about dancing. So when they met every day, at the sturdy oak on the hill, and danced with each other, it became completely indistinguishable from a dream.

Years went by, each one shorter than the last. The kids who danced through the day on the crashing waves of wildflowers were no longer the same innocent children, and yet they still met at the sturdy oak on the hill. The work grew with time, but every second they spent under the watchful eye of the oak tree was spent in a euphoric daze. Their dance was graceful, as time is the most powerful teacher. But when the sun slept beyond the horizon, and the final golden glow left to make way for the pale blue moonlight, there was much more than just dancing to encapsulate the bond they shared. But the dancing still remained.

Sometimes, a misplaced step or a fall would disrupt the balance, but they would lift each other up and continue. For they knew that the dance was never perfect. It was simply the time spent together, jumping and twirling through the sea of grass, that truly made the dance special. It was the look they gave each other when his gaze met hers, speaking only through their eyes and in their souls. One and the same, they became.

One day, he walked up to the sturdy oak on the hill differently than all the times he had before. She noticed. His face ran a ghastly white, and every cough pierced the air like a million daggers in her heart. For the very first time, they skipped the dance.

When they met, he was only worse off than the day before. Never better. She could feel him getting weaker, his legs buckling with every few steps, his face thinning with each passing day. Watching him fade from life right before her very eyes was an agony she thought reserved only for the wicked. Her entire world had shifted. All the beauty had faded from the sunrise that watched over the field of gold.

Still, they met every day at the sturdy oak on the hill. His legs did not possess the same strength of earlier years, but they danced, nonetheless. The dance took a different shape as his condition progressed. Though not as lively, each step was deliberate. Their measured routine had taken on its ultimate form, as they no longer needed the complicated patterns of movement they once did. After a dance, they would sometimes stand motionless, simply savoring the time they spent in each other’s arms. And every shooting star they watched leap across the speckled night sky, they wished for one more dance.

Then came the day that she had dreaded: the day she walked to the sturdy oak on the hill to find nothing but an empty meadow, its color drained from the flowers that gave it such vibrance. The first snow started falling to match the tears rushing down her face. She ran to his house with an empty hope that he might be waiting for her there, but when she opened the door, she was greeted only by the grieving faces of his parents. They embraced her, for their pain was one. They sat together, silent, three souls brought closer together through tragedy. They would never forget the time they spent speechless, as they would carry it with them wherever they went.

On a day when the breeze was no longer biting, at a time when the sun stained the orange sky, the three of them stood in front of the sturdy oak on the hill. They read the epitaph that he requested be put on his headstone, and excerpt from a hymn he liked to sing. It read:

Oh, the bright, the golden shore. There we’ll dwell forevermore.

And as the sun’s rays crept through the stems of the wild wheatgrass, the birds sang their own hymns in the thick branches of the old oak. She looked around at the first signs of spring, and then at the rising sun, starting its journey across the sky. She smiled.