The old lady sits in the corner of a park bench, overlooking her nursing home. She laughs if spoken to, her toothless smile as pure as that of a baby, a testimony to her lost memories.
She does not remember her husband with whom she shared 40 years of pain nor does she remember her children to whom she gave 30 years of her health. She fails to recall her father who was never there. She has a fleeting memory of a young woman who birthed her, fed and sang to her, cried and laughed with her and has now become a picture in her ancient house, never growing old.
The old lady sobs softly disturbed by vague thoughts of her mother, alarming her caregivers. Then she is back to senile laughing self as those around her sigh in relief.
The west wind howls in the woods, uprooting plants, tossing their nuts, and bending powerful trees. The branches nod to the teasing wind as nesting songbirds hold tight until the wind sails away.
The west wind now pauses by the pink splendor of the woods. Mesmerized, it calms into a breeze and crawls over each stem.
As the pink flowers dance in delight, the breeze finds its way to a corner, resting on an undiscovered flower. The breeze melts into the flower, enchanted by its texture and fragrance.