Old Mrs Bergman’s roses were the envy of the village. The bushes bloomed in a congregation of scarlet and coral, sun-flare yellow and delicious tangerine. They spilled over the walls and lit up the pavement with their scattered petals, like delicate wishes skipping along the breeze, destination unknown.
Mrs Bergman plucked and preened, watered and fed. She whispered sweet nothings. She told the roses all that she would have told him if he were here. And they bloomed.
At night she would take the fading telegram from the drawer: Missing in action.
And she waited to meet him again.
Great write!
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Oh, I love this! Gorgeous photo as well! =D
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i love this!
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This is beautiful! As beautiful as her Roses x
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So lovely but so sad. Well done xx
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I like your rich yet elegant phrasing.
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Thanks so much.
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Reblogged this on kelvindean and commented:
Well, wasn’t THAT lovely? Heavens.
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Sad, short and bittersweet. Thns for like.
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Loved it and her too
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