“She was something desirable and rare that he had fought for and made his own—but never again in an intangible whisper in the dark, or on the breeze of night…Well, let it pass, he thought. April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.”
(F. Scott. Fitzgerald)


I spent the evening working halfheartedly in the garden. Half-heartedly, because, really, who am I fooling when I claim to know anything about growth? Then, I sat in the tree house and called him, wishing that business hadn't taken him over fifteen hundred miles away for the week. When we hung up, I jumped off the ladder, landing steadily on my feet. Three tulips grew tall, hidden behind an overbearing shrub, and I brought them inside, tucking them in a glass of water, wholeheartedly.
Tulips in water; this I can manage.


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