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“A woman I didn't recognize tapped my arm. She was elderly, but still stood tall, her dark eyes bright with sadness. She wore a black brocade gown edged with red. She held out a bouquet of red carnations and white narcissus. She stepped forward and placed the flowers on Bartolomeo's headstone, then stepped back and slipped into the crowd so fast I could not see where she went. I stared down at the flowers. Narcissus was a common spring flower at funerals, but red carnations meant only love, deep abiding love. I had never seen her before. Who was she?” — Crystal King
A woman I didn't recognize tapped my arm. She was elderly, but still stood tall, her dark eyes bright with sadness. She wore a black brocade gown edged with red. She held out a bouquet of red carnations and white narcissus. She stepped forward and placed the flowers on Bartolomeo's headstone, then stepped back and slipped into the crowd so fast I could not see where she went.
I stared down at the flowers. Narcissus was a common spring flower at funerals, but red carnations meant only love, deep abiding love. I had never seen her before. Who was she?