Prompted by photo at [link]. Probably would add to it if you looked at the photo while reading.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved her grandmother very much. She lived alone with her in an an old run-down church at the edge of a lovely large lily pond.
The rains came almost daily and they would often walk around the sparkling water, watching the raindrops fall into the water and create little rings that would expand and expand until they finally met with something that broke their perfect shape. It was such a peaceful part of the day for her. Her grandmother would usually pick up one of the flowers along the way and fold it within her hair, telling her how beautiful she was and how much she looked like her mother.
Her parents had died of the influenza when she was very young. All that she now held from them was an old photograph, a tattered book of poetry, and her grandmother's memory.
Many times she would bring the book of poetry along on their walks together and her grandmother would choose one to read. Then they would discuss it and her grandmother would recall how much her father or mother had loved that piece.
As the little girl grew up, she felt that she knew her parents, although her physical memory of them had almost completely vanished.
The time came when her grandmother was too weak to continue their walks around the pond, so she would go alone, sit among the forest trees, and read the poems she loved so very much.
Until her grandmother passed away as well. It was a stormy day, almost too stormy to read one of her poems. But she did.
She went around to her favorite spot opposite their home, and with tears running softly down her cheeks and mixing with the raindrops, she felt at one with the water as she read:
"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
"Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no, -- it was something more exquisite still.
"'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
"Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace."
-"The Meeting of Waters" by Thomas Moore