She stepped from the little wood of ash, hickory, and walnut and came to a tottering stop. No one, not Ginger, not her kids, not even Osbee had ventured beyond the copse of trees in the last year, for this was Jesse’s spot, given him as a boy by his grandfather as his own private place. This was where the empty stream met the mighty river and a giant ash tree lent its trunk as a shoulder to lean upon for support. It was from here, near the ash on the river, where Jesse would float across in a little boat to the other side. Here is where he’d come to be quiet and hear the world and think and dream. Surely, if he was still around, here is where he’d be.

But he wasn’t and she fell helpless to her knees. She wept quietly, disturbing neither the squirrels who busied themselves around her seeking nuts they’d buried last fall, nor the crows sleeping in the branches above her head. The river murmured as it flowed slowly by the snowy bank. The world was cold and quiet and pale as Ginger’s grief fell heavily on the frozen ground.

She waited—waited for him, for anything. Just one more passing word, a touch of his hand on her hair, soft breath on her neck. Anything. Anything. A wind blew. It was a strange breeze—warm and moist, flowing down the winter water as if spring was just coming around the bend. Ginger felt it touch her cheek and ear and she closed her eyes, imagining Jesse sitting next to her near the river just as he used to do. The breeze turned cold again.

“Stay,” she whispered.

“Good afternoon.”

Ginger spun her head to the left and found a man standing on a fallen pine tree that spanned the river. Quickly she stood, wiping her cheeks. Jesse’s ash tree had split and splintered across the small pebbly streambed. A massive pine tree had uprooted on the other side of the river and its top was just long enough to reach the ash, the two fallen trees forming a bridge over the river. Snow flittered around her like so many silent white flower petals and Ginger stared, dazed by the violet light of winter’s coming eve and the darkness of the uprooted base of Jesse’s tree.

“Afternoon,” the man repeated as he stood perfectly still with his cap held in his hands. He was gaunt, about the age of thirty, with light brown tousled hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, and wearing a butternut-colored military uniform. She had seen uniforms like his before since reenactments of Civil War battles were year-round affairs in the Shenandoah. But this man’s was dusty, the insignia worn, and it fit him loosely. Surely it was not his uniform; Ginger thought it must be borrowed.

“G-good afternoon,” she replied hoarsely.

“A cold afternoon,” he added.

“It is cold. You lose your regiment?” She tried to smile. Her cheeks stung with tears.

“Why, yes, I did.” His accent was very Virginian. Not from Richmond. Not from the coast. Ginger was very good at placing Virginia accents because Jesse had a talent for mimicking them. This man’s accent, though, was not one she had heard Jesse do. A tear escaped, rolling hot down her face.

“Why are you crying?” the man asked, gently.

Ginger looked away from him, shaking her head.

“It’s personal,” she replied, wiping the tear as she slid her gaze across the river, searching for more roaming Civil War soldiers in the woods. The man chuckled. Ginger flicked her eyes back to him, unclear why what she had said was at all funny.

“I apologize, but I have never cried a tear nor heard of one shed that was not personal,” he said with a little smile. She cocked her head and smiled a little in return. His eyes were the color of his hair and soft and he stood so still, as if he yet waited for her to answer.

“My husband died,” she whispered.

“I am sorry. Was it sudden?”

Ginger took in a deep breath and looked up at the soft purple-white sky above her, trying not to feel her hurt. It didn’t work.

“He was a soldier, like you,” she said, smiling back at him through her unwanted tears. “He died serving his country.”

“It is an honorable death, then.”

Ginger nodded quickly, pulling the sleeve of Jesse’s coat to her mouth. Sometimes she could just catch his scent within the flannel lining.

“He’s in a better place,” the man continued.

Ginger’s throat tightened.

“You know? I don’t believe that,” Ginger whispered. “A better place for him would be here. Planting his fields and mending fences and picking apples for pie and teaching the kids to ride horses and caring for his grandmother, who cared for him. What better place? Where is this better place? I sure don’t see it!” Ginger froze; her voice had grown angry and her words tore the still air like the cawing crows that now lifted into the air from the branches above.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head and covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

“It is all right,” he replied, quietly, almost formally.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s personal,” he said with a small smile.

Ginger nodded, wiping her face with Jesse’s sleeve again.

“I should go. Um . . . you wanna come in? Osbee’s probably made coffee by now and I can take you back to your regiment. I’m so sorry.”

“We have already had forgiveness here. No need to apologize further. Who is Osbee?”

“Oh, uh, Grandma.”

He nodded. “And you? What is your name?”

“Virginia.”

The man smiled with a chuckle.

Ginger shrugged. “I know. It’s your state,” she said.

“No. It is my country,” the man corrected.

“Oh, right,” Ginger replied. “Fighting for Old Dominion.” She knew those who had fought in the Civil War thought of Virginia as a country, a separate republic. So Jesse had said.

“Virginia what?” he asked.

Ginger’s heart lifted a bit from her grief. This was her favorite question when asked by someone from the state.

“Virginia what?” the man pressed as he watched her face lighten.

“Virginia Moon.” She grinned as a smile grew brighter on his face as well.

“Virginia Moon. I love your name!”

“Most people around here do,” she replied, her head heavy again with cold and tears. “Where’s your regiment? I’ll take you back.”

“No need. They are a ways away and I have to take care of a couple of things on that side of the river.” He pointed to the woods of the state park. “But I thank you.”

He turned and headed back across the river.

“Careful. There’s snow on the tree,” she said, imagining that, if he fell in, it would be a visit to the emergency room for sure. That was one place she did not wish to go today.

“I have waited a long time to cross this river. No slippery path shall take me down,” he replied with his back toward her. “You go and be warm.” The man stopped and turned back to face her. “And, Virginia Moon?”

“Yes?”

“A man is not dead if his dream yet lives. If his love lives.”

Ginger gazed into his soft brown eyes, so far away. She swallowed hard.

“Think on that.”

She nodded, watching him turn and cross back to the other side of the river. He jumped off the fallen pine and climbed up toward the wall of trees.

“Hey!” she yelled. “What’s your name?”

“Samuel,” he whispered. “Samuel Ezra Annanais.”

Then he climbed through the trees and disappeared into the brush. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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