| One day, you and I will quietly share the same field. And people will come from far away places with flowers for you and me. Some of them will water their flowers with tears that come from eyes that are beginning to forget what we look like. Memories slipping silently down young faces. Your daughter will be there and some teenage boy who only knows my face from the cover of a magazine. And once a month, an old man will come by with a large green plastic trash bag and collect the dead flowers. Return to selections from i through x |