I remember finding rose bushes, peonies, iris, and tiger lilies in neat rows in the pastures I explored as a child. They outlined where houses used to be. Sometimes, I would find the remnants of a foundation, three short rows of earth colored bricks or stone, crumbling at the edges and worn by the rain.
Isn’t it lovely to think of the hands that planted these flowers, the lovers that left hearts in the trees, and the fingers that plucked blackberries from the very same brambles in front of us?
We’re only here for a little while, but some part of us remains forever. I hope what I leave behind is something beautiful.