Logbooks and Inkwells

They say every book has a tale. If you were to crack open my aunt's logbook, you'd certainly get one.

She was a sailor. One of the first. A pioneer, you could say: she took the open sea for a dance when it extended palm of wet rope.

Her best friend travelled with too, would you know. How he wrote, I don’t know, with an inkwell toppling all over the place. Yet, his prose had that peculiar tripping taste.

My aunt never became the typical travel-writer she had planned for herself. I guess that deliverance came to me.

The End

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