The Story Collector

by Evie Woods

We alter together with each season, transforming, yet always staying true to our nature.

my mother would argue that to lose one’s intellect is akin to letting seeds wither and die in the dark ground, and she routinely wins the argument.

Grief is like a hard lump inside of you,’ she said, tapping her gut. ‘It will stay there, hard like a rock, unless you begin working to soften it.’

‘It will never go away completely, but instead of a hardness, it can become a tenderness. Your heart will make room for your memories and you won’t be afraid of them any more.’