She was an occasional regular.
The men she loved have the gardens to prove it, and the women she loved no longer live in the country. Or they became men.
She was a woman who always wished that her mother would just say.
She had written only one truly great metaphor. It was:
“Innocence is a dandelion, lost to the breath of time.”
Too bad she wrote this metaphor at 14.
She never divorced because she never married, but when she left she knew she had to leave the cats behind in order to get out.
There will be some furniture left over. Don’t panic.
Join us any day in celebrating life, as it is, motivated by deadlines and seasons.
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