Michael T. Hare

I touched my ring finger, grazing the intricate band of silver. To some, it symbolized the end of one’s life, and to others, it symbolized the beginning of a new one. I’d often thought about it before our wedding—which would it be for me?

A mountain range lay before us, drawing a craggy silhouette across the waking sky. My eyes trace the expansive fields and clefts of rock, the copses of pines interspersed with wildlife. A bugle sounded in the distance, ricocheting off the surrounding cliffs.

Adventure. I could feel it. Smell it. Was this our path?

He took my hand, pressing his warm palm against my skin. His voice was strong and assuring, like the promise of sunlight in a storm. “This is the beginning of a new one.”

Against our better judgment, we ran into the wilderness, into the unknown. We weren’t turning back, and we weren’t stopping. The journey was easy at first. We traversed wide, alpine fields with grazing elk, small hills with trickling streams, and wooden bridges built over rivers.

He never let go of my hand.

As our steps continued, our path became a little more rugged. The ground curved up, and my legs started to ache a bit. He smiled and laughed. “This isn’t exactly what I was expecting,” he said. “Although the view is quite nice, isn’t it?”

A smile touched my lips.

He never let go of my hand.

When we crossed to the other side of the mountain, we found a peaceful valley to settle in. Both of us breathed a sigh of relief—neither thought conquering the hill was possible. We laughed and talked under a starry sky, and I fell asleep against his shoulder while he played me a song.

He never let go of my hand.

Days passed, and our adventure continued. Sometimes, we drank from brooks. Sometimes, we played among trees. And sometimes, we conquered mountains. I planted my feet on a stone, only to have it slip out from under my shoe and plummet to the faraway ground. I clung to the mountain for dear life. “We can’t do this,” I sobbed. “It’s impossible. This isn’t working!”

“Trust me,” he panted, his forehead dripping with sweat. His eyes were filled with pain, and I doubted he felt any less battered than I did. Yet his gaze never left mine, and I felt the strength in his voice enter my heart. “We can do this.”

He never let go of my hand.

As we faced more hardships, we began to understand this wilderness more and more. Our bodies adapted to the challenges, making them seem minor and less frightening than before.

He never let go of my hand.

I was shocked when I saw the first glint of silver in my hair. I stopped walking, staring wide-eyed at what I’d found. To some, it symbolized the end of one’s life, and to others, it symbolized the beginning of a new one. I’d often thought about it before our wedding—which would it be for me?

An open field lay before us, speckled with grazing sheep and horses. A small house stood on the far side of the pasture, hemmed by a white picket fence that glowed in the evening light.

Adventure. I could feel it. Smell it. Was this our path?

He took my hand, pressing his warm palm against my skin. His voice was strong and assuring, like the promise of sunlight in a storm. I laid my head against his shoulder, and he whispered in my ear, “This is the beginning of a new one.”

He never let go of my hand.