Gates of Heaven

The wrought iron hung on two hinges between two posts without a fence, just a gate set at the entrance of a garden to which he had come as a stranger in need of comfort, any comfort, but a glass of water would do, with or without the glass. “May I help you?” she asked. “Excuse me,” he said. “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?” He looked nice enough, tall and slender and sad about the eyes. What kind of a man asks a woman in a sheer cotton dress for water in the cool of the shade beneath the branches of her trees in the middle of the day? “I could just take a drink from the garden hose,” he ventured. “Go ahead,” she said and he turned on the hose, held the spout to his lips and drank deeply. When he had done he did […]

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