sweet work of art, crafted with love, may not have brought him the much deserved fame that he enjoyed in later years, but to Mona, it was a priceless expression of who he was. She sighed, remembering.
Her grandfather had left the village years ago, despite Mona’ s pleadings. He came back frequently for joy-filled visits, but his restless spirit compelled him to return to his secret den in the city, where he crafted words into magical tapestries, which captivated readers from all over the world.
A lone tear slid down her cheek. In the last letter that she received, he’ d said he was desperately tired. Her heart was heavy as she wondered if she would ever again bask in the warm glow of his presence, and be soothed by the balm of his wise words.
Mona had spent many happy days with her beloved grandfather, but one day in particular stood out from among the rest. He had arrived in the valley for a visit on a beautiful summer morning, and found Mona writing stories at her desk. She glanced up with delight as he peered over her shoulder to see her work.
Jumping up to greet him, she exclaimed, " Grandpa, I missed you! Do you have any new stories for me?” His soft answer surprised her.
“ I’ m weary of stories now, dear Mona.” He stood up.“ Let’ s take a walk.”
“ I’ m puzzled, Grandpa,” Mona frowned.“ You write such masterpieces, for which you receive praise from so many, and this is the special place where you come for inspiration. If you’ re not here to write your beautiful stories, what compels your visit?” she asked, walking in step with him.
Taking a deep breath he smiled and patted her shoulder.“ Dear one, you cannot know the pleasure of coming back home until you’ ve first felt the pain of leaving. I’ ve felt this pain and pleasure many times. The writer is a most miserable creature. He creates stories with the ashes of his soul before he is finally condemned to eternal silence.” Grandfather paused, letting her absorb his words, and then asked,“ Do you know where Shakespeare spent his last days?”
Somewhat befuddled, Mona nodded,“ I read that he spent his last days in the village where he was born and raised. Knowing the end was near; he signed his will, and died shortly thereafter.”
“ Yes, but do you know how he spent his last year?” he persisted. Thoroughly lost at this point, she shook her head.
“ He spent his time among common people, not as a celebrity, but simply as a man who came back home after many years. He enjoyed the humble pleasure of conversations with the village folk. Weary of creating characters and performing them on the stage, he longed to enjoy the precious time he had left experiencing the warm reality of real people who had real stories to tell. This creator of profound prose was free to be himself only during childhood and his last year
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