Talk of the Heart — Your White Flowers

... In our house, on the balcony facing the sea, there is a small pot of flowers. It was radiant with pure white the day I gave it to you on Mother's Day, in my name and in my brothers' and sisters' names... And never, as long as I live, shall I forget the smile of contentment in your eyes as they lingered, gazing at its open blossoms...

What gentle care was lavished on that pot, so that its buds might stay joyful, heads held high, spreading through your room at least some small measure of life and hope. And the flowers strove and struggled for a time... but then:

One by one, the elegant beauties began to close their round eyes and bend their slender necks in the surrender of despair — until that black yesterday, on our return from the painful farewell to you, after we had laid your pure body to rest beneath a green cypress and perfumed its earth with heaps of roses and carnations...

And in my silent daze I went out to the balcony to look in on your mournful flowerpot — and there the last flower had gathered in her veils in a gentle folding... and leaned upon her mother's arm.

*

Is it mere coincidence, this close-knit bond between your soul and the soul of your white flowers, Mother?!