Memories of youth, memories of Spring. The Spring of Youth, of days gone by. Memories of somersaults and skinned knees, of picnics under the shade of a solitary apple tree, growing alone in a field of unkempt green. Memories of laughter and bright sunny days. Sweet memories of a first kiss - memories of the first blush of adulthood to come.
The tree is older, more majestic, producing ever sweeter fruit. The same can’t be said of the body housing me, cancer-ridden and dying. My last breath should be of apple blossoms and fresh grass. And so it shall be…
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