Sunday, 21 May, 1870

     I suppose it’s not necessary for me to continue this any longer.  Once my memories returned, my reason for doing it no longer existed; and my recovery from the amnesia has been complete for some time now, so its original purpose has long since been served.

     But an odd thing happened after I’d been keeping this journal for a while:  it stopped being “therapy,” and started becoming something else.  At first, I relied on it as a practical and harmless way for me to express my feelings—or vent them, as circumstances dictated.  And I surely went through more than my share of anger, frustration and depression over these last months; so having this journal as a way for me to blow off steam occasionally actually seemed vital, sometimes, for my sanity.

     But the journal also took on another and more lasting purpose as time went on.  It started becoming a record of my life.  And the more I went through—the more complex my life became—the more important it seemed to write it down; to document it all, for—  Well, I don’t know, exactly.  Posterity?  That sounds pompous, doesn’t it, as if I’m consumed with my own self-importance.  As if I really believe that my foolish scribblings would actually matter to anybody else.  But I don’t mean it to be—pompous, I mean.  And I surely don’t believe that anyone but me could possibly care what’s in these pages.  After all, from the beginning this has never been intended to be anything but private.  Something for my eyes alone.

     I guess a better way of explaining what I mean, is to say that the more complicated things became . . . like after I learned that Bloody Knife might be a threat to Michaela and the children, and then he took her away from me . . . or when I had no way of knowing if I would live through that last confrontation with him . . .  Well, I felt the need to describe it all—to leave some sort of record behind, in case I didn’t survive.

     Which means that the truth is—deep down inside of me—I suppose I intended for Michaela to read this all along.  To know what I’d thought and how I’d felt—about her, about our love and our life together . . .  I don’t mean to be maudlin—really, I don’t.  And certainly when I wrote her that letter of good-bye, I hoped and prayed she’d never have to see it.  But if I was to meet my final destiny—if I was meant to die at Bloody Knife’s hands—then I had to make sure that she would know after I was gone that she’d been the best and most important thing in my life—that she’d made my life worth living, no matter how brief it turned out to be.

     Of course none of that matters now.  Because we managed to survive all the pain, all the danger.  We went through hell and came out the other side.  We’re together now and we’re going to stay together.  I pledge it with my life.

     So maybe it’s time to bring this to an end.  To close the book on this difficult, yet incredible chapter of our lives.  But not quite yet.  There are still a few things left to say . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

    Roughly twenty-four hours after we got off the train, we were watching another sunset together—possibly the most splendid one of all.  Just a short time ago I had completed my ritual of thanksgiving to the Spirits, and my tribute to the memory of my Cheyenne family; and now we stood at the cliff’s edge, marveling at the beauty of Mother Earth’s creations as the wind softly stirred our hair.

    It was only the second time in my life that I’d brought someone here to share the glory of this special, private place with me—and Michaela had been my companion on the previous occasion, just as she was now.
Our first visit here had been a kind of beginning—a way to mark the start of our courtship.  At the time, we’d both been uncertain how to proceed with this new stage of our relationship, and I’d told Michaela that there were no maps.  But I’d suggested that if she was willing to set off without one, then I thought I knew where to start . . .  And then, I’d brought her here.

    Now, we seemed to have come full circle:  taking our first awkward steps on the journey of courtship, traveling a road fraught with both joys and sadness, and finally reaching the end of our pilgrimage with the beautiful conclusion of marriage.  And yet this was a beginning too . . . of the next phase—the next adventure—in our lives together.

    I found myself thinking that we should make this a tradition . . . that we should come here to mark every important event in our lives:  our anniversaries . . . the special moments in the lives of our adopted children . . . the births of the children we would make together . . .

    I made a mental note to discuss my idea with Michaela later.  But for right now, all I wanted was to revel in the joy of being in this wondrous place with the woman I loved with all my heart.

    “I should have guessed that this was where you wanted to come,” Michaela’s quiet voice broke in on my thoughts.  “The one place in all the world that was a fitting enough setting to honor the Cheyenne.”

    “And the one place I’ve never wanted to share with anybody but you,” I said.

    She looked up at me, her eyes luminous, then stared out at the vista before us.

    “Do you recall an evening two months ago when you were still recovering in the clinic?” she said unexpectedly.  “We stood at the railing of the balcony, looking out over the mountains, and you described this spot to me, unaware that I already knew of it—that we’d been here together.”  Her words summoned an image of the scene to my mind, and instinctively my fingers sought hers.  After a pause she continued,  “I remember praying so hard at the time that your memory of our visit here would return to you . . . Or that at least we might become close enough again one day for you to want to bring me back.”  The wistful, faraway note in her voice stabbed me with regret.

    “I’m sorry, Michaela,” I said softly.  “That must have hurt you so much . . .”

    She squeezed my hand.  “It wasn’t your fault,” she assured me.  “You couldn’t have known.”

    “But it must have been so difficult for you, not knowing if I’d ever get my memories back . . . wondering if I’d ever remember what we’d had between us . . .”

    “Certainly not as difficult as it was for you, struggling with the loss of three years of your life,” she responded solicitously.
 
    "It was frightening, sure—but at least I didn’t know what I was missing.  But for you . . .  It must have been so lonely, having all those memories—all those feelings—inside, but not being able to express them,” I said gently.

    “You were lonely too, Sully—your amnesia cutting you off from your past and from those who knew and loved you,” she replied.  “I always understood that.

     “And the important thing is that my prayers were answered—for both of us,” she added.  “That’s part of why we’re here now—to give thanks.”

     “And I do, with every fiber of my being,” I told her, lifting her hand to my lips.

     “As do I—and that’s all that matters,” she said.  Our arms slipped around one another.

    A stretch of time passed as we held each other close, but presently she spoke again.  “How do you feel, now that you’ve done what you came here to do?”  Her eyes were compassionate.

    “Content,” I said quietly, after a moment.  “As if I’ve finally put paid to all the loss, all the heartbreak.  I believe the Cheyenne can finally rest in peace now, and it gives me comfort.”

    “I’m so glad, Sully,” she replied softly, resting her head against my shoulder.  “I’ve wanted that for you for so long.”

    “I’m grateful, too,” I added as I looked down at her, my heart full of emotion.  “For you.  Thank you so much for understanding my need to do this, to be here.  I’m so lucky to have you, Michaela.”

    “You needn’t thank me,” she said.  “As soon as you told me why you wanted to come here, I wanted to come as well.  I have my own reasons for wanting to make amends.  And to give thanks for the gift of our love.”

    “As far as I’m concerned, you never had to make amends,” I told her.  “But I know that the spirits of Black Kettle and Snowbird can see what’s in your heart.”

    “I hope so,” she whispered.

    “I know so,” I answered.  “They loved you, Michaela.  And they respected you.  Don’t ever forget that.”

    “I loved and respected them,” she said tremulously.  “And I still miss them—so much.”  Her voice trembled slightly, and I saw the track of a tear wend its way down her cheek.  Tenderly I brushed it away with my thumb.

    “I miss them too,” I agreed, a catch in my voice as well.  “But they’re watching over us, Michaela,  I know it—I can feel it.  Just like they’re watching over Cloud Dancing.  I know they’ll do everything they can to protect us, and to guide us.  Maybe we can’t see them, but they’ll always be near—alive in our hearts, and our memories.  That’s something no one can ever take away.”

    “You’re right,” she replied, a smile shining through her tears.  “We’ll always hold them close to us.”

    We continued to stare out over the valley as dusk moved in to claim the mountains.  The contours of the peaks gradually disappeared, becoming one with the velvet of the night.   Just then I glimpsed a bright spark, its glittering tail hurtling across the vastness of the sky.

    “Look!” I said to Michaela, my voice instinctively hushed as I pointed at the sight.  “Shooting star.”

    She followed the direction of my outstretched finger, a sign of wonder escaping her.  “How beautiful,” she breathed.  We continued to gaze at the celestial gift until it finally vanished, swallowed up by the darkness.  We were silent for a bit, absorbing the magic of the moment, reluctant to break the spell.  But after a while she spoke into the stillness.

    “Do you think it means anything, Sully?”

    “Yeah,” I replied, my tone reverent.  “I think it’s a blessing.  On us, on our future . . .on the joy we’ve found with each other, that we’ll pass on to our children.  We’re going to have a wonderful life, Michaela, rich and happy and full of possibilities.  We’ve traveled a long road, with lots of obstacles in our path, lots of hardship to overcome.  We’ve struggled, sometimes even fallen . . . and sometimes it’s felt like we’d never reach the end.  But we made it, Michaela—we’ve climbed the mountain and reached the top—and now we can turn our faces to the sun and feel the grace of God and the Spirits shining upon us.”

    “I never knew you had such a poetic soul,” she said, her tone reverent.

    “Just one of the things we’ll learn about each other, I guess,” I answered, smiling gently.  “But if I have any poetry in my soul, it’s because you put it there, Michaela.  You bring out the best in me—you always have, and you always will.  Because I have your love.”

    “And you bring out the best in me,” she echoed.  “Because your love gives me strength, and hope, and courage.  And most of all, joy.”

    “Guess we were made for each other then,” I said, gazing into the glow of light in her eyes that even the darkness of night couldn’t extinguish.

    “There was never any doubt,” she whispered.

    We moved into each other’s arms, our souls united, our lips meeting to seal the promise of our life together.  Happiness and sorrow, past and present mingled in our minds and hearts.  All time became one for us, as we joyously faced our future.
 

                                                                                  THE END
 

                                                                                                                                           October 1998
                                                                                                                                           December 1999