The Forsythia
My mother's last day of life was unusually frigid for April. As we walked together, she cursed the cold and proclaimed it would certainly kill the forsythia she so loved.
The forsythia survived the night, but she did not.
Today I am so angry at the forsythia. How dare it survive when she is gone?
In time I know I will forgive the innocent forsythia. But please be wiser than I am capable of being in my grief. Look at the forsythia, today and always, and think fondly of my mother.
KC Williams
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