In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Your Days are Numbered.”Lately, there seem to be at least 1,182,015 hours in each of my days. I try, sometimes, to treasure every minute, mostly when I visit my father’s grave on crisp Sunday mornings. I change out the cold, dead flowers for the red geranium – a sign of hope, a sign of the promise of Spring during these dark days of near-Winter. My Dad taught me to honor the dead with red geraniums. He taught by example, not just by his word. And I do remember all of it, and smile when I see his picture on my wall. Every day.