This New England kind of love reminds me of the potted chrysanthemum my husband gave me. I cared for it faithfully, turning the pot a quarter turn each day as it sat by the window until the blossoms hung with broken necks on the dry stems.
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We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet