Introducing Ava

The eyes - that's how we know.
And that's when I saw him. When I told him things he would laugh and tell of how he loved my imagination - 'an acute art of clarity and dignity,' he would say grinning.
For him I changed pebbles into seashells, words into love, banners to honour, the moon to become the sun until I gave him wings.
I look at the page, the paper is smooth as well as creased.
3 years is not like 60 years.
For some, it has been so. Like the character in one of my favourtie books - the one I randomly picked up at tesco - on Love.

Once upon a time, the girl who liked the boy, who was now a woman, travelled by boat from an island to the English Country. Home.
Now that time had passed by, she stood in the living room. For years Ava had become invisible and here she was at 29. She had changed so much that part of her wanted to laugh hard.
She wore a navy-blue and green striped scarf over her coat - Jack Will's style and true of Surrey outer-wear. Her long fingers were strong from the piano and cased themselves as she unpacked a notebook.
Her close friend remarked, 'Why did you stop?'
'Why did I stop what Mat?' she looked honestly unaware.
'Did you stop writing Ava?' he asked.
Stopped writing - what a remark, she thought. Ava wrote alright, she wrote songs, poetry, fiction, dreamt of characters, wrote in one of eight notebooks and each with their own calling. She wrote articles, printed books - she did it - what she told him she would do years before. In fact Ava read about writing and studied it.
When she was away, she wrote.
When she was here, she wrote.
When she travelled, she wrote.
In the morning and the evening, she wrote. Not 'murder she wrote,' but 'for Love, she wrote.'
For the Love of the Man Upstairs, at first, and then for the Love of him.