by
AmandaJoywrites
Short Story: Memoir/Autobiography
“Flowers,” she told the doctor, “I remember flowers—marigolds, poppies, wild roses, and peonies. Or, well, there was at least the smell.”
I’m spinning, whirling, like the loose fabric of her skirt. Raw silk dyed the many colors of sunset. Gentle yet firm hands grip mine as we spin in a meadow I’ve never seen before. It’s beautiful, perfectly round and lush English bluebells frame the edges. She calls this dance the waltz.
