Time isn’t money

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.


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