I have a draft of a story I’ve been working on for a while. The Pamunkey river flows into it.
“Language is more than words,” my great grandmother told me. She held a little book on her lap, leather bound, tied up with string–very old. She patted it and smiled and rocked forward in her chair, an old porch rocker.
I’m working a new story. In a way, it’s complete. But I think there is more to it then that which is on paper so far. I’m intrigued by this place where I live. After almost two years of being here, I’m only now discovering it’s secrets and magic. Here’s the opening line of my story
“Granddaughter, you are right. This place, home, feels magical. And it’s not just the memories of play tea parties on the patio with you, or the building of little sand castles here on the beach park. Let me tell you the real story, or a part of it anyway. Interested?”
“Well alright then.”
Once upon a time, this tiny patch of grass and sand, this small slice of shore, where these three rivers merge-