Again, I am reminded of Georgie. She had sparkled cold blue eyes. She was winter and wore it well. She embraced the season with purity and integrity. Her friendship meant well, I know it did, but 25 held a dark place in her heart. She needed to leave this scene. To get away. She had been too long and too many began to see her and her colors. They weren’t all put together like a promise, but a broken child, unleashed against the weasels, stoats, and ferrets. When she left, her books and memories stayed behind; all of them, tucked away unharmed, in a box in the attic. They are pieces of her in words, her words, her sayings, written by her favorites: Tolkien, Lewis, and Montgomery. Sadness belonged to my dear friend, but there was hopefulness, as well. A vessel lost at sea, lost in transition, lost in process. Community and communion, a longing and desire, she taught this well. In her heart, she could not rest. She could find no contentment. She could find no home.

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