Noni Francisca back in her day, scattered rose petals, called out each and every one by its scientific name.
Her memory faded like the shadows that fell across those distant blue hills.
On a bench, at the edge of her garden, wearing her pretty burnt orange cloche, the one she’d worn back in her heyday, she lifted her wrinkled hand and snatched at the memories that fled away.
One, two, three, and so it went, counting the rose petals, with the only words that she had left. . .one, two, three, the numbers that she had loved, the flowers that had been her passion.
Noni Francisca in her garden; her pretty burnt orange cloche a testament to her elegance.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2022