Sweetheart. These are for us on our birthday, served up by the old Delft vase. Do you remember it? She’s is so fragile, with cracks clear through the porcelain. But she insisted she should hold the flowers, so I found a way. Now, I can see why. She’s in her garden, sharing it with us.
I keep dozing off, when what I want is to write a little bit more. Or maybe I want to join the flowers in their dream, and meet you there, too. You can drift in, between the petals, and be there any moment.
Oh sweetheart. This year, this year. But spring isn’t waiting anymore. It’s here. Things are better than before.
Love you, fifty-seven. Love you so much.