The widow’s glasses slipped from her nose as she leaned over her husband’s casket. They landed on his chest and, for the briefest moment, magnified the roses that bloomed in the buttonholes of his second-best suit.
For years, until her own untimely death at the age of 23, the sight of roses — crinkled in bouquets or creeping through the latticework of a brownstone on the South Side — reminded the widow of her husband, and she saw him standing behind her in the reflection of floral shop windows.
— Daniel Casebeer
your work is dark.
i like dark.
-A