The tallest flowers caught her eye, but it was the withered daffodils that caught her breath and pressed a fist into her heart.
The stalwart sentinels of spring.
Outnumbered now. Outshone. Outdone.
As was he.
After utterly too short a time.
Her throat constricted. A reflex of holding what she’d learned would be a solitary cry.
“Look, Mama!” a child trilled. “The daffodils are tired!”
“Yes, darling,” a woman’s voice returned. “They did excellent work and are resting now, sleeping till next spring.”
Tears slid. It was something he’d say.
She should have known he’d send a messenger.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Thank you, Rochelle, for using my photo for the prompt this week. And, for all who manage loss, especially of those taken too young in all manners of war – may you know that we remember, and we listen, and we will not forget.
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