September 23, 1925
I often think fondly of Lillian. Those days spent in the toil of the hot baking sun. The lean-to we made during that unexpected sandstorm. The kiss we shared as heat and wild furry overtook us – with out and within.
I now stand before the beckon of an ivy wrought gate. Much like the one I left so many years ago with dear Lillian. Older. Wiser? Know not I what to expect behind these walls.
A certainty though; another great adventure.