I am working on a short story as I travel south by train in Florida. Began 6 months ago on a flight over, I return to it when I have moments between assignments. It is not a creation to be loved and admired, just the considerations and embellishments of a young woman who wishes to write for closure. She grew up; and so did her world, her expectations of herself, and those she holds dear. Many adults lose the dream they held when they were younger; the light darkens, and the places you used to go to reflect don’t seem so acceptable anymore. Perhaps in my small space where I imagine, there is understanding. I can still write about a twenty-something leaving a life behind by horseback and riding through the West of England, where the landscapes are green and history still waits for us.

Here in this place, I think of stories I loved as a young teen. The ones I read over and over again. I must admit something curious now, I used to leave the last page. I would leave the last page of any book I loved. I could never bear the end, so I wouldn’t get there. I would only read that last page if I knew I was rereading the book again. Torture to some, but to me, a clever decision. I would never have to deal with the closure that would present itself at the end. I have no idea what that could say about me now, an adult, writing a short story for enjoyment in her spare time. Maybe there won’t be a last page, and I will live knowing it is still a work in progress, beautifully confirmed in its lack of ending. Perhaps it will wait for me, until I am ready to read that last page from someone else’s story.