Hope Street. Where grandfather met grandmother. Where mother met father. Where sister met brother-in-law. Where everyone who was anyone to her had met the one who became someone to them. There was magic in the cobblestones. Or maybe in the sunshine reflected in the windows. But there was magic: it was her heritage.
She had three weeks in the Old Country with nothing but to sit in the shade of the arches of Hope Street. And sit she did, for three weeks. And then another. And then she let the companion pass flutter to the ground, and left.
D.M. almost 4 years ago
beautiful! Although this is her heritage, her magic waits in the New Country.
Lorna Megenity almost 4 years ago
I feel sad and inspired. I like your stories.
Melanie almost 4 years ago
Thank you D.M. The magic of love cannot be forced, or one may end up married to the wrong person.
Thank you Lorna. I'm thrilled to hear you like my stories.