first published in South, 2002

The Journey

The first ten miles were the worst—

after that, she was reconciled to the journey.

Now and again he smiled encouragement;

touching her cheek; putting his arm around her.

Even the darkness failed to disguise his pain

as his sceptical eyes scanned the hummock

and travelled on over the stony ground ahead;

but they were always kind.

It wasn’t something they’d planned:

nor was the journey.  They tried to pretend

it was purely a holiday — time to take stock

in a mystical land where exotic birds flaunted

their plumage or flew low over the water

as gasping fish eluded the gaping bills.

One day they picked wild flowers

and he made her a garland of rue.

In ways it was like the honeymoon

they’d never had: quality time together,

sleeping out under the stars and dreaming

of easier times, the equivocal past behind them.

Some day she’d give him a child of his own,

no questions asked.

When they arrived, weary of travelling,

the city was throbbing with people

— her body with pain; fiercer than his;

all her own.  Still he was there for her.

Later, nursing the child in the manger,

she wept for joy, the rites of passage complete.

He stood apart, holding back bitter-sweet tears

for the woman he’d always loved

but had never known.

Carolyn King

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