Between the Pages

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Between the pages of books I collect, I often discover secrets, remnants from the past.
Once, I opened a book of short stories and unveiled a dried violet tucked between pages 232 and 233. Fearful the flower might crumble I left it in place.

Writing about the violet evokes a treasured, aged memory of my daughter. Her long strawberry-blonde hair falling around her face, she rushes to the porch where I am reading. Her flushed face damp with sweat, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, she...