Thirty Years Ago
Paul was falling, the rush of warm, moist air causing his untucked shirt to billow out around him. His hair whipped around his head, delivering tiny, stinging slaps across his eyes, nose, and mouth. By far, the worst was the sound— equal parts whistle, wail, and roar—so loud that he wished he could move his hands to cover his ears. But his limbs were useless, pinned heavily against his body as he tumbled.
They say when death is imminent, your life flashes be- fore your eyes—a torrent of images that span from cradle to grave, streaming across your mind’s eye like a video stuck on fast forward. But the only picture filling Paul’s field of vision was her face—every arch and plane, curve and dip memorized long ago. It had—she—had taken his breath away four years ago when she’d walked into their freshman Music Theory class at the conservatory. He had known even then that he’d marry her. And he had. Not forty-eight hours ago, they’d stood, hand in hand, on a white, sandy beach, where he vowed to love her for the rest of his life. A life which, apparently, was to be much shorter than either of them had anticipated.
Bits and pieces of it floated around in his mind like individual puzzle pieces that he couldn’t quite click into place…