Armchair travelers
Let's not go there. Let's not. "Here," I said, picking up a copy of A Woman's Journey. "Let's take a hike along the Appalachian."
As rays of the Spring sun danced on her scarred face, a face that had worn crevices and gullies of life's rains before the incident, we climbed until our minds soared in the clouds as the hawks of autumn over North Lookout at Hawk Mountain, a place Victoria loved almost as much as the library. She had been a walker, a hiker, even a runner at one time.
The sun waned. The air chilled. Still, we walked miles of trail in our reading.
Her eyes were brimming with wonder, and my heart beat with the exertion of seeing her at peace. I had told Mary to take the afternoon off, but she was so enthralled by the story that she ended up sitting in the rocking chair, with her eyes closed, as I read to them both.
Tori told Mary, "Close your eyes. You can see it better that way."
Mary complied. "Oh, it's lovely," she announced.