My lastest story

When I was 8 or 9 years old, I remember walking from school along a path to my home and there were beautiful, dainty, azure flowers that grew among the weeds, I called them wild violets. I picked them lovingly everyday when they were in bloom from early April until school was out in June. They would be a gift to my Mother. On arriving home I would wrench open the front door which was quickly followed by a thud as the door hit the back wall, loud noises in our home seemed to fade into the background. I quickly ran to Mom and pushed the flowers I had gathered into her face, she was so kind and understanding, there was no fragrance and the flower usually died within hours of my presenting them to her, but as a child I felt that I was showering her with priceless purple gemstones. What I saw in her face and in hers eyes, was love and kindness. I knew, for this short period of time, I was the center of her world. Mom would stop what she was doing and let me regale her with all the activities of my day.