The Unfolding of Sarah

Previously

…It wasn't perfect, not yet. But it was a start. It was a reflection of the subtle shifts happening within her, within her perception of the world, and even, perhaps, within the stoic Mr. Abernathy. The world, she was discovering, was far more poetic than she had ever imagined, and her own life, with all its delightful imperfections, was the most fertile ground for verse. The wooden bird on Mr. Abernathy’s shelf was just another clue, another stanza in the unfolding poem of her existence. The sound of Lily’s laughter drifted from the living room, a bright, discordant note that she now found strangely comforting. The symphony was playing on.