There was one of a small town—of growing up and moving away, of return in time and restlessness that rose as years compounded onto last and nothing seemed to change; feeling of stagnation, being stuck, before will and following through to finally leave for good.
It was a story of friends—of past that was—of few that remained as most fell away as do when home of a history and life in present exist in different realms.
There was story of a farm, of home in the trees, of garden and roots that grew and bloomed still in the place and the magic, alive, felt when she returned. It was a place of blood, family and more; a story lived of the soul and for which she never found the words but felt when returned and, too, when away too long and blood and roots and magic sought her through her soul.
There were stories of adventures: travels, escapes, and seekings world-over. There were stories of becoming lost, stories of being found, and some where she just wandered: where reason and meaning and taking aways—if ever any there at all—remained unfounded in spite of her search and seek.
There were other stories too—not of this world, not of this life, and maybe never another; yet they lived within her still. Maybe they were dream—spirit imaginations—but there were aspects of she saw and knew and felt as true and clear as anything known in life. She sometimes wondered why, but when she did, and felt her thoughts and spirit go in drift to where she doubted answer, she did not overthink and let them be—whatever stories were.
She thought of all right then—in an instant, and in infinite, as moments sometimes are. Mind spun of a book and story’s write of another’s left behind. Glow of bedside lamp on pages white, story and book not yet aged when yellowing of page takes place.
The story still was new but like all that last—replay and retell in page and mind and dream—that would change.
She had other stories too.
Remembering, all were alive and in her still. They were never really gone, never left behind. Truly, they were always there and—like blood and roots and magic of farm where she did not live—seeking through the soul—communing, affecting—asking to be told.
One day she would, left to page—art cover bound in books bearing titles and her name: the stories she left behind.
She placed the book upon night stand, open-held down-facing lie in hold of last read page. Flaxen color of mattress throw, hue as roots of her long-strand hair, she climbed beneath the blanket, warmed under its cover, turned out the yellow glow of bedstand light as lives and stories left behind returned to her in dream, seeking through soul, asking to be told.