The child was born dead, and it was as if the ice of that winter settled into her heart.
Her husband watched her slipping away with hopeless eyes and a heart that feared she would never make the spring.
But she did, barely, walking through the new growth like a wraith.
The garden drew her, and as the flowers put up their shoots and the trees began to wear a haze of green she forced herself to face the hurtful truth.
The tender violets were lifting their faces to the sky on the first day she allowed herself to cry.
Working Title Blogspot 
Leave a comment