It was the year narcissus bloomed in all her windowsills.
In summer she¹d bought bowls from the flea market.
They were mismatched, odd and chipped.
Some were the solid colors of paper poppies.
Others were painted with hearts, flourishes of an untrained hand.
She¹d put them everywhere the low light of winter shone.
Outside the rain streaked sideways, gusts would rattle glass.
Inside, narcissus everywhere.
I never saw this.
I only remember it.
Narcissus - from Jane -
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