One Last Ride Together

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During many of the summers after we became a couple, we spent several weeks motorcycle camping around the lower forty-eight. Colorado was one of our favorite states to tour and one of our favorite places to camp was on the rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. The canyon is very deep and very narrow, so much so that sunlight only reaches the river below for three hours during the longest days of summer. On clear moonless nights, we would read by starlight while listening to coyotes sing to each other across the canyon. It was a magical spot and we often relive our memories of these moments while relaxing of an evening.

Two years ago I entered a short story contest that had the following restrictions; the story was to be no longer than five hundred words and was to be about something to do with wheels. I immediately thought about our motorcycle excursions, chose one, and fictionalized it. What follows is my entry unedited. I thought it ought to at least win Honorable Mention but the judges didn't agree.

ONE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

172 Words

Her wish was uttered on her dying breath.

During our forty years together she had not requested of me anything I could not honor willingly and fulfill to the best of my ability. But this was the hardest – I had neither heart nor will to comply.

Yet I did.

I am standing by our motorcycle on the north rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in the fading twilight. Above the hills to my right the full moon has begun its transit; two coyotes are rejoicing in its majestic light. This was our favorite place to camp and every time one of our odysseys took us close to Colorado we stopped here.

The moon has called forth a gentle breeze and to its transport I slowly empty the contents of the urn I have carried one thousand lonely miles. The breeze embraces her ashes and they drift slowly down into the canyon’s darkness. And as it does it whispers, “Thank you my darling for bringing me back to the Gunnison.”

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