“Do you mind when new stories write nearly the same to old?” he asked.
Anna smiled, laughing light as spirit made and shone same of the question. “Why should I mind?” Anna answered back with question. “They’re your stories, your thoughts. You’re the one that puts them down. If the thought is there and you wish to share, who am I to care?
Besides, if the thought is there, however many times, why shouldn’t you try to write and tell again—a little better, a little more true, nearer to perfection what it is you wish to say; new draft from a clean page. Don’t we do the same with memories, enjoying as many times as they should rise and choose to return—enjoying ones that we love most every time that they appear? Why should it be different with thoughts, with words, when in them we find a joy?”
Mirthful jest of her laugh resided, but smile still remained.
Through the window, sky was blue. In the lawn, she saw tall of the native grasses, ornamental in their place—leaves and stems above her height—and wildflowers in their bloom; her piece of Eden, piece of the earth to which she brought histories of another home.
She thought of other home again, cultivated wild of land and place, deep roots growing richness like the natives in her lawn. Like his words and stories of, she returned often to in mind, and in the memory and halfway dreams, always, it gifted joy.
She saw in mind how it’d be right then, in summer day and sky of blue; bow of the grasses heavy in head, change of color and feel from wetness of spring into heavy heat’s arrive—dry from the south, changed humid on the wind in draw of moisture from earth and living verdure of; way of it’s stick to open skin, cling of damp sodden clothes upon; hide and rest in respite of shade—in trees and heart of home—keep of the wind and move of the air, cooled again in shelter from the sun.
From the memory and dream of vision, she thought again to his words—the stories he wrote again—home in the trees, cover and sun, shared moments and make of love; change in her smile, begin of a pang, as she knew his stories, her dreams, were same.