Once upon a time, she began to re-enter the life that had been given her, to appreciate the child who slipped out of her parent’s sight and into the back of a pickup truck to head down to the village and play.

The young girl lost in stories, deep in the basement of a city library, who walked home in darkness as snowflakes began to fall.  She recalled the heavy snow covering up the city’s dirt, and the intricate sparkle of snowflakes in the streetlight.

She remembered the moment she realized that an old man was following her as she walked home from school one afternoon, the thrill of slipping down an alley and back around the block, so she became the follower and he the followed.

She began to remember what the journey was about, as the sun sank beneath the hill and the golden moon rose behind her. She began to remember that she was real, just like the Corduroy Bear, that loving and being loved was the substance of the story, the heart of the adventure, whether the scene took place in the wilds of the woods, in grimy city streets, or the deep recesses of the heart.

And realizing that the inner was a reflection of the outer, she began to give herself permission to return to the old places that bore light, and to travel into new territories that reflected that light, just like the sun and the moon bear witness to each other.

And so the story began again, this time with the resonance of age, like fruit of old vines made into new wine.