The Bluebells, by Ian Fletcher

He will walk again to the woods with their carpets of bluebells.

How his mother loved it when he returned with a bunch of them which would sit in a vase for days, symbolizing his filial love.

Ah, he was the golden boy who would grow up to bring her joy.

Yet, he had disappointed, bringing her but trouble and sorrow.

Oh, how had he gone so astray?

Yet today he will walk to the woods again, slowly now, his old back aching as he picks the flowers.

Later, he will lay them with his lost hopes upon her grave.

From: Friday Flash Fiction

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