Perched in the garden swing among the birds visiting the feeder and the butterflies flittering about the tiger lilies, Cara read from her diary. The edges of the paper were soft and frayed by time. She brushed a wisp of gray hair from her cheek and enjoyed the sun on her face.
She closed her eyes and movies of her past played on. Good, bad, happy sad; all of it. She was hiking with Roger in the Andes, then she taught others the joy of finger spinning wool from lamas. She showed Reed how to hold a flat rock just right for skipping across the lake. Oh the lake, she spent half her life there. Her grandfather taught her to dress the fish they caught and how to ready them for the iron skillet he set right in the coals.
Memories like these kept her company anymore. She sat down each Sunday afternoon…
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