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He held her hand more tenderly, now that she was dying.

She still found it odd to meet the tipping point when someone stopped living and began to die. Maybe, it’s when the press of our memories outweighed the span of our future.

Cancer. An embarrassing one. Uterine.

She had a few weeks left and spent it with him walking next to the boardwalk.

One time, she took his hand and led him under the sandy, wooden boards.

“I know you don’t believe what I believe. But, I know you believe in me. When I am gone but not gone, I will send you a sign.”

He nodded and kissed her more tenderly.

She passed before the snow sprinkling melted the day after Valentine’s Day.

One blustery day in March, the breeze blew his favorite grey fedora off his head. Suddenly, the wind was warm and whispered something unintelligible to him. Something sweet and just beyond discernment.

And just as suddenly as the play had started, it stopped.

And, he prayed she was well.

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