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A bullet for a man, thought guilty of a crime. A shot to kill caused to maim. She watched it come and felt no call to move; she held her ground. This man deserved to live, innocence to be proved.
Fear before pain as life flashed before her eyes and her body fell. Darkness came to suffocate and stay. Day after day the voices of those she loved came and went.
One day a different voice came and wept, not the man she loved and not a friend. He thanked her again and again. Try as she might this voice she could not place.
She remembered life before this. But the darkness came so long ago. Those days were like a dream.
A dream, in his head that's all this was, each day he prayed and wished that it would end. She would wake up and this horrible dream would be past. It had come like a theif in the night and stolen the woman he loved. He had watched that bullet heard her silence and seen her body fall. That day a part of him had died.
That had been swift but this was not, it made him sick. Each day he came, sat by her side and held her hand.
Day after day he waited, hoped and prayed. Day after day the chances got slimer and it became selfish to keep her alive.
A part of him truly feared her soul had died. That he was just holding onto her body, the beauty he lived and she was no longer inside.
One day the darkness fell away and she rose up. Through the window she saw spring had come, and knew she would be laid to rest in the beauty of the changing season. On that day she floated away. Her soul finally free.
The day had come that the doctors could do no more. On that day she slipped away. He stared and sighed for it was not loss he began to feel; but had felt for months. She was finally at peace; her soul and body freed.
Many found tears and felt loss and pain; he did not. No longer did he hold her for his own. She was free again.
Her death made him think and wonder. He knew how she lived and how she came to die. Would it count? What would matter? Was there a place of great joy? A ring of fire? Where would her soul find rest? He was glad she had known a king, stood again religion and lived for Christ; her life was not in vain. She had changed and changed and found her peace and walked in that. He knew religion was not what she cared for, she had cared for Christ, there was a difference; she had taught him that.
A day came to pass and in that field he stood, remembering who she was. Their beautiful daughter who first had been hers by his side; home to honour her mother who died.
As the shots echoed out he finally cried. A bullet had honoured her, a bullet had killed her. His private hero had gone home; the one who taught him who a hero was. On her stone he wrote.
A year passed before he joined her; by the hand of whom he and she had called boss if not friend. He had lived and loved but never forgot the prayer he spoke; when she had still stood by his side. Nor the words he wrote, for they still rang true; when he again lay by her side. There their daughter wrote the end.
There are no heroes in this world, just souls seeking a King. They walked this world together hand in hand with their Lord. No fame did they seek but fate did they teach; for true till death they stood. For what is right and true to the oath they spoke. Here lies my father, my mother; two people who taught me what heroes are.
Catherine and Warrick Brown.