Words

Elsapatience

My life seems a tedious, stretched-out pattern.

Before she died, my mother had a book. It was her favorite book, all about places she could never hope to see. And there were pictures of these places as well.
When Mother died, all of her things were taken away. I've no idea where they've all gone. Her book was one of the things I tried to steal away with me. It wasn't just for the memory of my mother that I kept it; I was just as mesmerized by those glorious, far away descriptions as she was.

From Mother's book, I keep a tattered picture of the seaside, a long-ago forgotten coast. Sadly, age has taken away the beauty of the little watercolor picture, but the lovely, faraway dream of the place still remains every time I look. Sometimes it tells me that perhaps I have a hope that Mother never did. A very small hope, but still, it's there.

Cobblestones. What's wrong with grass? It's so much more pleasant under the feet. Especially bare feet. I confess I have this constant yearning to go out again to the grove, to my little garden, to my swing. Especially considering my almost daily chore of scrubbing the damnable cobblestones.
I've another. I confess myself horribly jealous of Princess Evangeline. The freedom! To go about wherever one pleases, any day, any hour. However, I content myself with my little garden, and the fact that it seems it has been made official, finally, that Prince Albir has been claimed heir after the death of his uncle. That ought to keep him busy. No time to scamper about in the garden.