cat and I were sitting on a bench that
looked out toward the White Mountains.
"She married into a wealthy Boston family. She escaped Philadelphia.
Thirty-five years ago. What did we know?"
"Not much," W.cat said. "Shall we go?"
As we were walking through the West End, she pointed to a poppy that
had fallen over on the grass at the edge of a flower bed. We crossed
the lawn, and she held up the blossom while I looked around for
gardeners and German shepherds; W.cat is sometimes unable to resist
flowers. The poppy had four unusually large petals, deep lavender, each
bearing a dark, nearly black, irregular circle. It might have been a
hall of flags or a gallery of abstract sunsets, regal and empty,
waiting for its visitors. I suppose it is the fleetingness of life that
makes us story tellers and flower thieves.
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