Caroline Allen liked to stare out of her window, her tea at hand and a cookie within reach. Her hobby consisted of two things: walking and reading. She often did both together, which has gotten a good share of laughs and mocking from her neighbors. They were cruel indeed, but she didn’t give their disdain any thought. She, unlike the rest, saw the good and the shiny in people.
Yes, the shiny.
Out in the sunroom of her dingy home, sat a pair of rocking chairs, the wood splintered and frayed at the edge, clearly antique and have lived longer than she. But she would often sit there by herself and read a thrilling book. She loves the sun as much as she loves the moon She doesn’t have many preferences. She isn’t picky, but she likes sitting. She likes how the sun kisses the flowers that she’s grown. She loves it when it rains and hearing the pitter-patter of the water against her windows. To her, they are magic.
Magic means a great deal to Caroline. It shaped the way she grew up and still lives. Magic was her life.
Now don’t go thinking that she’s a magical creature or holds the power to cast you into oblivion. No, not the magic she’s grown up with. It’s the kind that comes from the subtle things she’s grown to like. For example, she likes the old lady at the end of the block who smiles at her.
Maybe, that isn’t quite as magical as say, someone casting a spell for the cloudy weather to turn clear, but it is, nevertheless, magic to Caroline.
Caroline likes the subtle things. She likes how animals coo at the sight of one another. Or how the ants carry away the crumbs she leaves at her front steps. She doesn’t have the urgency to stomp on them the same way others might do. She likes to watch them travel about and explore. She often imagines conversations they hold with one another, human talk and she would role play and realize, their life is as much important as hers.
She likes how the trees dance as the wind sings. She likes how the world cries together. She, especially, loves the way nature seems to work as one. She loves that a lot.
Caroline doesn’t have much to dislike. She dislikes the stain on her coffee table her mug had made, but the next day, she’d found it very artistic and even went as far as admired her cup for doing such a great job. She dislikes it when her foot lands atop a spider scurrying off.
When Caroline Allen died ironically, with a book at hand during her daily walk, she realized she loved death as well: How you could never tell when it’s coming. She liked that a lot, the uncertainty. But she disliked leaving her kettle still steaming and the cup of coffee outside her sunroom. She disliked that very much.
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