My father once bought a beautiful blossom for my mother — a single, perfect and stunning orchid on a stem. It was a rare moment of tenderness and thoughtfulness; something I’d never seen from this violent and bitter man, and something I’d never see again.
Mom looked at the flower with distain and said “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I was disappointed to come back from New York last weekend to discover there’s still a foot of snow on the ground in Central New England. It’s dissipating slowly because the temperatures are still averaging below freezing. That’s good, because otherwise all the snow will flood everything if it melts quickly.
Still, it’s already spring and I haven’t seen a single spring tulip. I want to shake my fist at the sky and scream “enough of winter already!”. Have I mentioned how over winter I am?
I once wrote a story about a young man who met a young woman on the street. She had been abused by men and had run away from home, travelling a long distance. She was lost and afraid.
He coaxed her to a grassy area by a trickling stream to rest, laying his coat down for her to sit on. There they sat in silence. A tear trickled down her cheek, and he reached over and gently wiped it away with his thumb.
Then he plucked a wildflower and gave it to her. He became the only man she would ever trust.
Draft a post with three parts, each unrelated to the other, but create a common thread between them by including the same item — an object, a symbol, a place — in each part.
Weaving the Threads