Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Three Hundred and Seventy-One

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.

©jj 2019

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