My departed soulmate's favorite spring flowers were the violets in our garden, and they were his mother Nan's favorite too. Every year, he waited patiently for the little dears to flower and feasted his eyes on them for hours when they did. He would bend and inhale their delicate fragrance, then look up at me and say that violets are for love.
When I discovered the violets were blooming this week, I plunked myself down on the steps nearby and had a good cry. I don't weep gracefully, and I probably looked like Hades as I sat there, blubbering and sniffling and wailing and sore of heart. Beau curled against me as closely as he could, trying to comfort me as he always does at such times.
And so it goes... the violets are just being violets and doing what violets are meant to do on this earth, but they feel like a message from my soulmate, and I miss the man so. The days of the wee purples are fleeting, but oh, how they dazzle in their appointed time, spring in and spring out. Violets are for love, and love goes on
