The journal of a woman living on Spinner's End, where there is no magic, there is no wonder, but that which its residents make for themselves.
The sun came out for a while today, and I walked out to stand by the water for a spell, and pretend the river was a pretty one, and the bank a grassy one, and the sun a constant one, and the place somewhere unnamed, and far away.
The river may be brown and mucky, and have a smell, and be unable to sustain life above the basest slime, but if I squint tightly and tilt my head just so, I can still play this make-believe, as I did as a little girl, and all that’s left is the sparkles of sunlight on the water, and my dream can make the river blue and pure and teeming with fish and irrigating an atmosphere of adventure.
Though even as a girl I had the sense to know adventure for someone like me was limited to reading books and squinting at a dirty river. So now that I’m grown, I visit the library weekly, and try to catch a moment to trick the old river into sparkling on a sunny day. When I remember that it can sparkle, anyway. It’s one of those things that becomes easier to forget, which must say something about how adventurous an adult I have come to be.