In life, it gave of itself for the pleasure of others. Never seeking for self. And though its leaves have yellowed in shrivel haste, our memory lives on that we might have roses in March. And in April. And in May. And all the way to December, whereupon we can finally forget.
And though the tragedy strikes harsh, we find comfort in knowing it has moved beyond this cold, cruel world to the pastures of a better place. A kinder place. A place where black thumbs exist no more.
And thus, "I hold it true, whate'er befall; Despite outrageous valentine cost; 'Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all." -Alfred Lord Tennyson (with a slight adjustment by J.S. Johnson).
February 14, 2010 - February 25, 2010