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The Eye of the Storm

It was the eye of the storm.

Punchdrunk, surprised by the sudden silence, the weary mariner slumped against his chair and stared bleakly at the cracks in the ceiling.

Mentally, he revisited the last half-hour. Was he wrong? He wanted it to be over – but he could not see how he was wrong. It would only make things worse to pretend he was wrong when he knew he was not. Was she wrong? Well, she certainly did not think so.

In painstaking detail, he retraced every rise of the wave, every parry with the oar, every turn and twist of the storm. Had he been wrong? Had she been wrong?

The storm could not have been avoided.

It could not have been avoided.

With solemn resolution he surveyed the distant horizon. Lighting flickered, and thunderheads grumbled over the dark waves.

They would need to go through this. There was no going around. It was not over, and they needed to go through this.

He shivered off the grey dampening drizzle and took a drag on his seaman’s pipe.

The sky was unforgivingly black, the wind unpromisingly cold. Before and behind, the storm rumbled: with impatient hunger, it refused to be ignored.

From nowhere, the white feather of a dove blasted into his dingy, hovered, and was gone.

A smile of true life brightened his eyes, rippled down to pull up the corners of his mouth. His brow furrowed in a solid determination.

There was somber joy as he whispered hoarsely into the wind:

“I would rather be in this storm with you, my dear, my beloved, than with any other woman on earth. You are worth it. Our love is worth it. Our kids are worth it. We are going to get through this, together, you and I. I love you.”

…and that day, in that moment, in that crucible of hurt and heat and decision, the foundation for forty years of love and joy and happiness and life was laid.

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