Through the mist she remembers the silly childhood ritual she practiced with religious frenzy – plucking out petals from a flower to uncover his love for her. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. She remembers the happiness that flooded her when she wrenched apart that last soft patch of pink. He loves me, he does! She remembers the months that followed –good months – but not the years since. She smiles, at the irony, at the pain, at the memory of picking the wrong flower.
May 21, 2009
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