“All you have is this little wheelbarrow?”
Shelly shook his head.
“I don’t mind how long it takes,” the despair in Martha’s voice was overshadowed by determination. “And anyway, this won’t be too heavy.”
Shelly shrugged. “You’d change your mind after you make a few trips pushing this rusty thing uphill against the wind.”
In the weeks that followed Marsha wondered more than once if her brother had conjured the wind just to spite her. Dust and grit found purchase in her eyes and throat. Her palms grew red, then raw, then rough.
And still, she pushed the loaded wheelbarrow through gravel and scrub brush and small canyons of cracked earth that manifested overnight upon the path she forged across the steppe.
Slowly the grave-marker took shape.
“I’ve brought the stones from our creek, Mama,” she whispered as she placed each carefully. “Your heart will never again thirst.”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge