The bouquet of flowers sits next to you on the autumnal bank of the lake your parents breathed their last breaths into. You wipe your tears away for the umpteenth time, your grief ruminating on the letter they wrote you that said "Don't cry for us. This was our choice." When you lift your crusty eyes, you see them standing there on the treacherous bank, the ephemeral ghosts of Your Parents. They glance backwards over their shoulders at you, eyes hollow, faces solemn, silent as their graves
Comments
0No comments yet.