I planted it in the garden the year before, a discarded bulb from an Easter pot, with a forgotten hope of life respringing. The dew lingers late this April morning as I collect the milk from the doorstep. I shiver slightly in its coolness, then the sweet aroma laden breeze overwhelms me. The most beautiful of Spring floral scents, Hyacinth. I stand transfixed in my pyjamas. Then the tears come. Your last gift. Forgotten for a whole year, but your memory never is my friend.
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