When Ethel turned sixteen, an ancient Romani woman at the bustling farmers market in a sleepy English village slipped a weatherworn hand around hers, stared into the tangled threads of fate and declared,
You shall never walk down the aisle.
Ethel only giggled.
Years slipped by, and when Edward stepped forward with a glittering ring, her mind recalled those words and she smiled,
Well, at least Ill be a bride in name, she quipped, accepting.
They wed.
Children did not arrive for a long time.
The doctors, with solemn faces, pronounced infertilityfinal, without a hint of hope.
Then Ill at least be a wife, Ethel sighed, fighting tears.
Miraculously, she found herself with child.
Its dangerous; you may not survive, warned the physicians.
Ethels smile widened,
Then Ill at least be pregnant.
She gave birth to a robust, healthy boy.
Decades fluttered past as if they were a single sunrise. Ethel and Edward weathered everythingjoy, loss, laughter, tears, soaring triumphs and crushing falls. Forty years melted away like a daydream.
Then a new diagnosis arrived.
You have half a year left, the doctors said.
Ethel met their eyes squarely and replied,
Then Ill jump from a plane with a parachute. Its always been my secret wish.
And she leapt.
One jump, then another, and another, spiraling through clouds like a startled bird.
Months later, when the tests were repeated, the illness had vanished.
For as long as a person truly lives, destiny merely lifts its shoulders,
rewriting the story anew with each breath.
