Hillside
by Zary Fekete
“Shall we walk up that way?” Roger said.
Cynthia looked up and saw the winding path he was pointing to. They were standing at the foot of a green hill, about 200 yards from where Roger had parked their car.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit steep?” she said.
“Not at all,” he said. “Here, take my arm.”
He took her right hand and began to walk toward the path. She followed carefully, placing her feet in the places where he put his. The sun was coming in and out of the passing clouds, and large shadows floated across the hill around them.
“There’s a fine lookout point from the top,” he said. “It’s worth the climb.”
She nodded without answering. She glanced back and saw they were already some distance from the parking lot. She heard the distant hum of the highway.
“I say, what’s that?” Roger said.
“What?”
He released her hand and gestured towards the edge of the path. There, a small wooden stake had been driven into the ground, with a delicate thread tied to it, a small envelope dangling in the breeze.
Cynthia looked at him. His eyes were on hers, but she couldn’t read his face. She stepped over to the envelope and held it in her hand for a moment before pulling it free. She recognized his handwriting on the card on the inside.
“You never know what you’ll find in these hills,” he said.
They continued up the hill. Roger didn’t hold her hand anymore. He walked slowly with firm steps. A moment later, he stopped and pointed to another piece of wood. Another small envelope was attached to it.
When they finally arrived at the top of the hill, Cynthia was a bit out of breath. She was holding seven envelopes in her hand. Roger ran his fingers through his hair and gestured toward an outlook point that faced off toward the mountains in the distance. Cynthia looked farther up the hill and saw the beginning of many more foothills that climbed up toward the distant peaks. She looked back and saw Roger standing by the outlook alcove. Next to him was a small wooden pedestal with a small vase holding two red roses.
Cynthia walked to the pedestal and looked down at the hill they had climbed. The distant traffic was silent, and all she could hear was the soft breeze blowing past her skirt. When she turned back around, Roger was on one knee, holding a ring in his hand.
“Will you marry me?” he said.
A bird flew above them, crying out with a harsh squawk. The sound echoed in the valley below. It grew in Cynthia’s ears until she felt she couldn’t take it.
WENSUM 