I’m standing in the middle of my garden,  small and special, like an ancient idol, hidden for centuries  by the luxuriant vegetation  which grew

I could have died a thousand ways or not have lived at all. I could have sold my happiness for envy, rage, and gall. I could have drowned in grief and tears, and given up my soul. I could have followed on my fears to falter, fail and fall.

She kept the candle lit, like grandma taught her.

I guess I arrived at that time in my life when people start questioning meaning.

There are things we don’t talk about, and they weigh heavily on our souls.