The River Widow

by Ann Howard Creel

Over the course of her life, she had learned that people could hold inside the brightest peaks and the darkest pits, and there were those who straddled the break—half of them drawn to evil, half drawn to beauty. Those people could step from one side to the other and back again as if the line were as thin as a strand of hair.

So many moments went unnoticed, and suddenly, for this brief one, she was thankful for everything that had brought her to this place and this second and this sensation—an awareness of her unique life. However imperfect, it was hers alone. And if personal sacrifices were a part of it, so be it.