Three forty-five p.m.
I took a break.
I’m again rocking and thinking.
Danny will soon be making our dinner.
I decided to exercise my feet and take a stroll around the apartment.
Before I leave, I sing my Betsy doll a song to my favorite picture of her in front of me.
She is holding a bouquet of flowers.
She loved flowers.
She once told me that as a kid, she had a small flowerpot that grew flowers.
It was placed on a ledge outside her window.
Me, a tenement kid, the only flowers I first saw were on the chest of a dead man.
I love flowers, the smell of flowers, but not with the passion that Betty did.
She “glowed” while holding them.
She was always picking dead leaves from them.
I often told her she smelled like a flower.
It brought a smile to her face (and mine).
(July 2, 2021)