Bethany Thorpe

The Beginning to a Novel I Will Never Find the Time to Write

I have never been outside… Never felt the amber rays of a falling sun drown my skin in warmth, or awoken to a blanket of mist silently resting over rolling fields… From what I have read, it has become increasingly apparent to me that Spring sounds like the richest and most beautiful time of year. Dickens speaks of March as the only month where the “sun shines hot and the wind blows cold." Only through novels, poetry, and words can I somewhat understand what home once was. What home could be again.