Will They Tell Our Story?

Time was such a strange melody. When Peggy had died, Eliza felt like the day lasted just a second. Short, pure with pain, incomprehensible as she lost her younger sister to the hands of death. When her mother died, the night felt like early morning, the beginning of just another sorrowful day. When Philip, her son, threw away his shot, the day was slow, never ending, a loop of misery that crawled to her insides and resided on her very own soul. When Alexander laid with Eliza for the last time, holding her hand, the day was like a hurricane- quiet, but ever so loud inside her mind.

Time was such a strange melody, and she felt like she was running out of time.

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." -Benjamin Franklin

(The story of the woman who gave up her life to save her husband's legacy. But, who will tell her story?)