From the time she was a little girl, she loved books. There weren't many books written specifically for children back then. The first book she ever owned, that was hers alone, she won in a contest at school. She pored over the pages of Edith Nesbit's Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare, savoring each word, each illustration. It introduced her to the intriguing world of the bard and it was her most treasured possession.
From that point on, she was never without a book. When she established her own home, she found five feet of shelf space to accommodate the Harvard Classics. She became a "regular" at the local library, carrying home stacks of books each week. When children came along, she read them A.A. Milne at bedtime until they could recite "James James Morrison Morrison..." by heart. That one small volume created a safe haven for banishing bad dreams. She taught her children that books could take them anywhere and teach them anything.
The more she read, the more she dreamed of seeing the world. She finally realized that dream in her middle years, bringing back mementos that would trigger a memory here, a story to be told there. It always came back to the stories.
In the end, books became her last refuge. Her world became smaller as her hearing faded. When she could no longer follow conversations, she was left with her books. They never failed her. Through them her life remained rich and as always, full of beautiful stories.
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