chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things


She paused on the path and looked to her left toward the distant hills. Low and blue, they seemed to roll up from the sea—the ocean made solid. How far were they, she wondered. A day? A week? As much a part of her life as the oaks in her yard, these hills were never closer than at this moment. She had never stepped off the path, had never set out across the fields, had always followed the track that kept parallel to the line of hills. It had seemed enough: the house, the oaks, the stream, the summer vegetables, the winter constellations, the distant hills. Finnegan bounding after rabbits, and his mother before him, and her mother before that. Her life felt spacious, stretching unrestrained to the blue hills…

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