Story: The gift of the roses


Every year, on her birthday, my mother got twelve roses

from an old admirer. Even after he died, the roses kept coming:

the way some people leave paintings and furniture,

this man left bulletins of flowers,

his way of saying that the legend of my mother’s beauty

had simply gone underground.

 . . .

After ten years, the roses stopped.

But all that time I thought

The dead could minister to the living;

 . . . Louise Gluck (from here) 

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