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One white flower

Springtime explodes with colors. Winter’s cold, cutting winds, and lifeless grays – and our memories of them – are all but forgotten. The sky vibrates blue. Fields lushly shimmer in forty shades of green. Those greens backdrop radiant flowers which blossom in increasing variety and numbers. People’s faces glow with smiles, darkening tans and glistening sweat. Eyes dampen with joy over the rainbow that colors the world. Still, the brightest color is the pure, blinding white of a single flower that rests beside a headstone.

Springtime orchestrates a symphony of sound. Winter’s death-like quiet no longer muffles the land. The wind no longer numbs the ears, but carries an expectant whisper and buzz. Wavering fields of up-shooting crops actually create a quiet, yet discernable hush. Caws, pipings, exclamations and songs of countless birds float with the breeze. Insects chatter, click and flit about. Scamperings and patterings of timid animals flit and hide under the plant shoots and leaves. Larger creatures call out with their individual voices to the world with the joy of being alive. People clank about, talking and humming and even singing with a sharing of noise that winter simply doesn’t know. Oddly, that white flower somehow creates a sense of something other than dark silence. Somehow it makes the ears re-hear voices that once laughed and spoke words which cannot be forgotten.

The ground’s embrace is no longer cold and lifeless. The soil’s texture is soft now; pliable to the boot, spade and plow. The grass and sand caress or scrape the bare foot. A person’s skin comes alive with the warmth of the sun. Hair raises and flows in the breeze. Hands squeeze and stretch open wide with the invigorating yearning to do something ... anything, as long as they can feel life. A butterfly’s antennae waver over a motionless person’s skin as the translucent wings tarry for a few seconds, then take flight. The petals of that white flower are so delicate and warm. The carved stone is so hard and cold.

Such smells and aromas! Each whiff of the air replays memories conjuring up past springs and summers. The multitude of perfumes of a distant pond evokes stored-away times of past outings with loved ones. Precious memories exist of the faint whiff of a loved one’s skin and hair, of tantalizing aromas of shared food, of bounding exertion. The white flower gives of itself with a calming tingle of scent.

Winter is all but gone. But it is not gone, and in the mind never will be. Sadness and tears exist. Love was torn away.

The white flower lays upon the ground on this spring day. It gives of its beauty, of its song, of its perfume. It is a remembrance. It is a memorial. It is put upon the grave by a shaking hand, amidst accompanying tears, on this day, in memory of a loved one. A loved one who will be seen after life’s eventual winter becomes eternal spring.