She and I would trade books, talk endlessly, drink cheap whiskey, engage in unremarkable sex. You know, the stuff of everyday.

Behind every trial and sorrow that He makes us shoulder, God has a reason.

Take me back to the pink and purple azealas bloomed along your stone wall. 
Take me back to the dogwood covered in pink blossoms before disease took its vibrance and life. 
Take me back to the open door welcoming the rays of the sun to shine through.
Take me back to Ellis Ave.

The sudden heat of his tone made her colour mount again, not with a rush, but gradually, delicately, like the reflection of a thought stealing slowly across her heart.

Written By Edith Wharton

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