The wedding of Othniel and Achsah takes place soon afterwards. Achsah looks radiant as she stands beside her bridegroom. Salmon and I join hands and dance in a circle with the others, as we did when we ourselves were wed not so terribly long ago.
Several months later, I realize that my life is about to change again, in a very significant way. Subtle but real changes are occurring in my body that let me know that something very important, very special, will happen soon.
Salmon looks at me with a question in his eyes one morning.
"Husband, I believe that your child is growing within my womb," I tell him.
He gives a whoop of joy, picks me up and spins me around, then sets me back down very gently. "Thanks be to Adonai," he whispers.
Within months I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that it is true. I no longer bleed every month, and my belly has become swollen. One day I feel the faint stirrings of my child moving within me and am filled with awe and wonder. I place Salmon's hand on my abdomen so that he can feel our child's movements as well.
"I am so excited and happy that I am soon to be a father," he tells me. "And there is no other woman whom I'd rather have as the mother of my child than you."
Warmed by his words, I reflect that I have been blessed indeed that I have been chosen by him, that I have been the one to capture his heart. In the destruction of the only life I have ever known, I have found not only a new one but also a fulfillment of my deepest dream, a happiness beyond my wildest imagination. I look forward eagerly to the birth of my child, the physical evidence of the bond of love which Salmon and I share.
My labor pains begin late one evening. At first mild, they grow stronger and stronger. Salmon runs to fetch the midwife, quickly returning. I beg him not to leave me until after our child is born, and he promises to remain by my side.
The pains grow worse. Salmon massages my back and moistens my face with a damp cloth. After many hours there is still no sign of an imminent birth. Salmon assures me that all is well but is unable to disguise the genuine worry in his eyes.
In the early hours of the morning, our son is born at last. He is a beautiful baby, the spitting image of his father. We name him Boaz.
Boaz grows to be a bright, inquisitive child. By his first birthday he is walking, by his second he can say many words, and by his third he speaks fluently. Salmon begins to train him in the ways of the Hebrew people and of their God. As much of it is still quite new to me, my son and I learn together.
I tell Boaz nothing of the fallen city of Jericho, of my own origins, of those I once knew who are no more. It is all in the distant past now, buried deeply within the recesses of my memory. Every so often, something happens that brings my old life once again to mind: the way the sunlight slants in through the cracks in the window in the early morning, the sound of rain on the roof.
Several years after the birth of Boaz, I give birth to twin daughters. Salmon and I name them Chaya, which means 'life', and Simcha, which means 'joy.'