Abram's Promise

Abram's Promise by Tim Haut
He lay there, an old man sprawled on the ground, his body reluctant to move. He could feel the cool earth against his cheek, could taste the dust on his lips. He knew it should not be long before what was left of him would mingle with this same dust and earth. He wondered what Sarai would think, looking out from the kitchen window, wondering if her man would soon be home, then see him lying prone, unmoving, in the fields of Promise. She would come to him, borne by strength and terror her skirts flapping in the air, fling herself upon him, lift him up, pressing her mouth against his, seeking life. How could he tell her of the words turning in him, the dream of fruitfulness, a hope that tasted more like stars than dust? He pulled her down upon himself, and the two of them, wrapped in each other's arms, laughed into the darkness. (Comments to Tim at timothyhaut@yahoo.com.)