She sat forward on to the chair, she scooted up to the edge almost
until she looked like she was going to fall right onto the floor, she
sat straight up, her back tall and proud, her head lifted high with
pride, feet shoulder width apart-planted flat and firmly on the
ground, she then lifted the wrinkled, yellowed, and aged paper up and
out and started to read it only it was rhythmic; it had a tune and
melody, it was musical. “There is sweet music here, that softer
falls-than pedals from blown roses on the grass, or night dews on
still waters.”
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