A space to write original pieces; a glimpse of a dream available for all.

Mrs. Dasselty was eighty four when she found a peculiarly heavy package in the mail.  She didn't get much of anything in the mail anymore, except for the Reader's Digest subscription every month and a couple of mail order magazines she kept aside in the summer, ready to order from for the end of the year holidays.   Every year she'd get a Christmas card from relatives she'd only heard by name. That didn't bother her. She kept the cards pinned on her wall, close to her books. An all-year display to stare at and maybe, rely on.  Christmas is the best time of the year as they always say.

She kept leather bound books in every nook and cranny.  They piled up disorderly (so her guests always said). Angel-themed trinkets and a long forgotten collection of tea pots waited for her to dust them, but her arms pained her too much lately; there wasn't much she could do to make her place more presentable and that was acceptable by her (but not by her guests) .

Mrs. Dasselty, a lonesome woman, had spent her life quietly, something her nurse called a coccoon (to her disgust).   In the end, it didn't bother her what her nurse thought. A dismissive gesture would shut her up, and she'd go about her duties (thank God).

But Mrs. Dasselty recognized at once what the package revealed once the brown paper and strings fell off.  How could it be? How could the diary of her teenage years reappear so suddenly in her hands? Her weak heart skipped a beat, or two.