Beginning in year nine of our marriage my wife, Mary, miscarried three times in a year and a half. That did something. That ended the let’s-have-sex...a-lot pattern of our lives. I know now that twice a week in the dark isn’t a lot of sex but I didn’t know that then. After the third miscarriage the doctors convinced us that another pregnancy would kill both Mary and the baby, so she had her tubes tied. On the way home from the hospital she opened a door into her thinking that she had never shared. "Her moans shook not only with heartache, but also with passion. Of course she loved the man: he was her whole world, her whole life. And he had found another; he would return only to leave her. Perhaps it would be better if he did not return - if he were killed during the fighting. A great sob escaped her sand-caked lips as she silently cursed herself. Perhaps she should be the one to die: her life was about to end anyway. She bit down on the sand harder as her fingers moved. More

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