Marjorie Rohdham was her name. A seventy-two year old woman of German ancestry who adored her library. Her youthful grandchildren rode past the burnt-red cabinets each and every day on their imaginary horses holding plastic guns. She envied their lack of wisdom, their ignorance. The fact that their lives consisted of so few complications. How ironic was it that these little creatures passed by her only true loves, her books, with such indifference. How nice would it be to live in your own little world, she thought as she sipped a sweet chamomile tea. Her cat, Mittens (because her paws were white which made it look like the cat was wearing mittens), sprawled her slender, painted figure on the cheap oriental carpet. Her bleach white paws grasped the embroidery as her yawn soothed Marjorie. As she sat in her worn, knit rocking chair her previous despair evaporated as she sewed a beautiful blue scarf for her only daughter, Yoan. And though she longed for re-juvinated skin, adventure, and romantic love- the dingy velvet curtains cured her desire. The raw power of this eighteen foot room exeded the fantasy of far away castles. It's almost as if her love for her recently deceased husband has been channeled into this wooden haven. And here, as she lounged into her deep sunset- she reminisced.