It was nights like this when she would go down to the river. Nights when life's problems seemed to yield no solutions. “I'm going back to my wife”, he'd told her. Months of empty promises had finally come to their inevitable conclusion. So she walked along the river, in the heat of a summer's evening, with the Sun hanging low on the horizon and the orange of sunset reflecting off the water. It was there, out at the river's edge, that she first saw him. He was skimming pebbles across the water, watching as the ripples echoed out over the surface to the other bank. As she approached, she noticed that he was singing. She couldn't quite make out the words, but the melody seemed to be in tune with the water, as if he was singing the very song of the river as it lapped at the shore and as the birds swooped across the surface. As his arm swept round in long arc to whisk yet another stone across the water, she noticed that he was smiling, obtaining quiet joy from this simple of diversions. She moved closer and her foot snagged a twig. Her turned round and saw her, deep brown eyes seeming to penetrate her, yet his smile remained. “Hello”, he said, “I could use some company, please, sit beside me”. Despite her greater desire to be alone she did as he asked. Oh, he seemed friendly enough, and then she never could say no, she thought. He tossed another stone into the water, left-handed this time and it was then that she noticed the ring. He was married. A slight wave of disappointment moved over her, all the men she loved seemed to be married. He turned to look at her, catching her gaze, “You remind me very much of my wife, you know”, he said, “Same hair, same bashful smile”. She blushed, “Where is your wife now?”. “Off, somewhere, with some other man. Such a beautiful woman, but FAITHFUL, not on your life. You know, sometimes, I think loving someone is the most painful experience in the world. To truly love, without reservation and yet to be so utterly rejected and scorned. To love is to hurt. Have you ever been in love?” She was somewhat put back by the openness of his earlier statement and now, by his question. But answered none-the-less, “I think so. Perhaps … But they never loved me.” Suppressing feelings of guilt at her own record in love she changed the subject, “But your wife, why don't you just leave her?” He looked at her deep and hard and she could see within his strong gaze a sadness so deep, for a moment, just for a moment, she almost felt apart of it. “I love her”, he said. “If you ever truly love someone, you never give up on them. Oh, but we had some great times. I used to sing to her:

You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride,
you have ravished my heart with a glance of your eyes,
with one jewel of you necklace.
How sweet is your love, my sister, my bride!
How much better is your love than wine,
And the fragrance of your oils than any spice!
Your lips distil nectar, my bride;
Honey and milk are under your tongue;
The scent of your garments is like the scent of Lebanon.

Yet she seems to have forgotten my love-songs, my long embrace. She has forgotten the love the two of us shared. Yet still I will win her back. I will never give up on her.”

The girl looked at him. He unfolded himself, stood upright and offered her his hand. She took it and looked again into that face, a face of sadness, heartbreak and hope. “Come”, he said, “let me introduce you to my love”. Behind the shade of a nearby tree his horse was waiting. As they rode off together he sang to her:

“Set me as a seal upon you heart,
as a seal upon you arm;
for love is strong as death,
passion fierce as the grave,
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
a raging flame,”

“Strange”, she thought, “to mention death in a love-song.” Then, as they entered the city and the crowds started cheering and waving branches of palm, she began to understand.

Dave Spence

So here it is — Merry Christis!