“Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps… perhaps…love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.” – L. M. Montgomery
How does one begin? To tell a story so long in the making. Of a yearning in the heart of a little girl, awestruck by photographs of her mother’s ivory gown. To tell of a dream so delicate, so easily crushed and scattered away, and yet cherished beyond all others. Where does one start when telling the story of waiting? A tale laced with ridicule, doubt, and fear… and of hope lost, and then regained, only to be lost again. How does one begin?
When trying to tell a story so dear to your heart, you feel so caught up in the middle of it all, discerning a true beginning is difficult. Before there was a him + her or a you + me, and long before there was even a first “hello,” there was a little boy with big green eyes and hope in his smile and a little girl with soft brown ringlets and dreams in her heart. How does one begin?
There are two “beginnings” to this story, for it started as the tale of two individual threads on two very different journeys. It is the story of two lives coming together and discovering the rhythm and the music of love.
Our story’s beginnings are May 25th, 1993 and January 25th, 1994… (to be continued)