She was always careless, but I was never able to hold it against her. She was always so genuinely upset, whether her latest victim had been a priceless vase or an ephemeral trifle, and so earnest in her promises to improve.
I tried to remember that as I swept up the rose petals, and to tell myself that it was not important, that only her intent mattered, her sweet insistence on taking a rose from my garden, her promise to flatten petals from it amongst the leaves of her psalter and her commonplace book, but I had to ask myself: could she remember a man, when she could not remember the rose that she had left on the carriage step as she turned to make her final farewells?
I rather hoped not. It would be easier for her to forget, once she was married to a richer man.
Not another anti-Valentine, though I admit it might as well be, but a piece inspired by this week’s VisDare – though, as is often the case, I glanced at it several days ago on my phone, and I took away rather an unfair impression of the lady. However, ’tis done, and as ever I urge you to follow the link to find both the image and the other responses to it.