Dust sits on the old oak desk in her study.  The layer of dust has thickened over the years. At the time of her death, papers were strewn across this desk, unfinished manuscripts. The caretakers of her estate cleared away all this clutter shortly after her death as tours of the estate were conducted for a while.

She, through her writings, continues to impact lives many years after her death.

On each anniversary of her death, fresh-cut flowers are placed on her grave by admirers.

When she was young, she had many suitors.  She rejected them all and died a spinster.  It is easy to understand why so many men were attracted to her.  She was very beautiful, at least physically.  She retained much of that beauty into her later years.  Her long, jet black hair did not give evidence of graying noticeably until she was well past her sixtieth year. The mysterious, penetrating eyes maintained their vigor until the day she died.

She preferred to be an observer of life – watching it, rather than living life, or participating fully in life.  Perhaps, this helped her in her writing.

Never to feel the soft caresses of a lover deep in the night, or in the afternoon.  Never to feel the hot kisses, the passionate, frantic lovemaking.  Never to return those kisses.

Never to be with child.

Never to hear a young daughter or son say “I love you mommy”.

To dream a life,  . . .  and live a dream.  Perhaps she was happy with that choice.

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