Well, There's A Little Bit

I Came To A Clear Conclusion, And It Is A Universal One: To Live, To Struggle, To Be In Love With Life--in Love With All Life Holds, Joyful Or Sorrowful--is Fulfillment. The Fullness Of Life Is Open To All Of Us.

There's A Tree That Grows In Brooklyn. Some People Call It The Tree Of Heaven. No Matter Where Its Seed Falls, It Makes A Tree Which Struggles To Reach The Sky. It Grows In Boarded-up Lots And Out Of Neglected Rubbish Heaps. It Grows Up Out Of Cellar Gratings. It Is The Only Tree That Grows Out Of Cement. It Grows Lushly . . . Survives Without Sun, Water, And Seemingly Without Earth. It Would Be Considered Beautiful Except That There Are Too Many Of It.

It's Come At Last," She Thought, "the Time When You Can No Longer Stand Between Your Children And Heartache. When There Wasn't Enough Food In The House You Pretended That You Weren't Hungry So They Could Have More. In The Cold Of A Winter's Night You Got Up And Put Your Blanket On Their Bed So They Wouldn't Be Cold. You'd Kill Anyone Who Tried To Harm Them - I Tried My Best To Kill That Man In The Hallway. Then One Sunny Day, They Walk Out In All Innocence And They Walk Right Into The Grief That You'd Give Your Life To Spare Them From.

From That Time On, The World Was Hers For The Reading. She Would Never Be Lonely Again, Never Miss The Lack Of Intimate Friends. Books Became Her Friends And There Was One For Every Mood.

Books Became Her Friends, And There Was One For Every Mood.