Copyright Sarah Ann Hall
The house that Margaret knew stood on a cliff overlooking the ocean. A painted iron fence going on for miles around it. She remembered the gardener who used to chase the birds from the stone pillars and how he had scrubbed their black and white graffiti from the concrete heads.
The house that Margaret knew was the castle of her childhood. But like her childhood it was gone, decayed down to nothing and overgrown with weeds and vines and trees.
The memory was bitter-sweet, but Margaret was grateful. What time had consumed stood untouched in her heart.