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Description

    On a hill, far from the noise of the city and the quiet roads of the coastal towns, there stood a wispy tree of grey bark and fiery flowers that always blossomed throughout the four seasons that assailed the country every year. The tree, which grew precariously on the edge of the hill, overlooked the great blue sea that stretched towards the horizon and its branches reached out towards the colossal white clouds that lived in the sky above, a heaven that it could never touch. This tree, though it lived on the edge, weathered all storms, from animalistic hurricanes to crippling blizzards, and stood triumphant with fresh flowers that seemed to utter the very essence of victory. For all its achievements though, the tree never had a name or at least one that history remembered. It did, however, have a title that a man had given it, a man that history forgot as well.
    “The Beauty of Storms” was the title that the man had christened the tree, and perhaps once, the man had called the tree by a name but that too was forgotten by the man himself as his memories faded. The title, however, never faded from his memory and the man found in the tree, a quiet friend of solitude, and a partner that harbored the same tenaciousness that the man believed himself to embody. The man had big dreams that he couldn’t put into words but he knew that his dreams would impact the world, he just didn’t know how. All that the man knew was that whatever he did, he felt a purpose and a greatness behind his every action. It wasn’t narcissism, or madness, it was to the man, a higher calling, that one day he would achieve something that would leave the world for the better, and every time the man looked at the tree, he felt this calling to be true. His unknown dream seemed impossible, he knew that all was possible because the tree survived through the impossible.
    The man had known the tree since he was a child. It was a time of industrial revolution and the economy was booming with prosperity from technological advances to every industry. It was a time of great hope and peace, and for the man, his childhood was filled with days of joy. The hill, like the tree, had no name but the father of the man had found it when he was lost on the road between towns. The man’s father travelled much but when he was home, the father told the man everything he had seen, learnt, and then he taught the man what the father thought was necessary to survive in life. Every weekend, the man and his parents would have a picnic of warm homemade food under the tree at the hill, and then while the mother lay basking in the light of the warm summer, the father played with his son, the man, and they would joust with wooden swords, crafted by their own hand. There was a golden hue to the light and the sparkles that radiated from smiles made the memories last forever in the man’s mind. He could never forget the fiery flowers that drifted in the wind, beautiful life caught in a strong breeze, and the sound of his mother asking him to step away from the edge, and the man always did, when he was a child.
    The man had hoped to never grow up when he was a child because he had never wanted to lose the happiness he felt during the summer months, but time stops for no man, and the child grew into a young man, who sadly, had to face the harsh realities of life. War touched the world and in its early days, fighting was constrained to neighboring countries but the man’s father had to serve and so, he bade farewell to his family and left for the frontline. The man never heard from his father ever again, and although he didn’t like the possibility, he knew deep in his heart that his father would never come back again. Bullet through heart or shelled by mortar, all the man remembered was the salt taste of his tears and the screams of his mother when two men came to deliver the truth of the father’s end.
    Crippled by loss, the man’s mother fell into depression and later into depravity, when she yearned for the touch of a man but found none similar to her lost love. With no one to console the man when he was young but not old enough to work or to enlist, the man found solace in destructive tendencies and a twisted notion of revenge, that he would avenge his father’s death by fighting in the war as well. The man had in his heart, a deep hatred for all things living because he didn’t know how to express his pain and through trials and tribulations, the man found himself at the edge of the hill, grasping to the bark of the tree and looking down at the vicious waves below with eyes filled with tears. The man’s coat billowed in the wind of the storm and he could not find the strength in himself to jump down into the waters below because he knew there was more to life than just anger and pain. In the rain that seemed to pierce his face and hands with cold needles, the boy clung desperately to the tree of his childhood and stared at its fiery flowers as they were torn into the bellowing winds. For an hour, the man clung to the tree and there, in that moment, they seemed to be as if two friends, unwilling to let the other go for they knew only death awaited them below. The man prayed to all his gods and beliefs, he apologized for all his wrongs and he cried his pain away because he had felt death at its closest. The rain softened and only a light curtain of water caressed the man, whose heart felt cleansed and absolved. With his arms around the tree, the man looked up at the sun that shone between the leaves of the tree and gave the tree the title of “The Beauty of Storms”. That day, the man kneeled on the hill where he used to play and found a clarity of mind that only those who stood on the edge of failure and loss know, for it is a clarity of hope that life can be better.
    The First War rolled over and the man found honest labor in a factory that produced cars, but another war lingered on the horizon. Within a few years, the country was back at war and this time it was more emotional than ever before. Countries had attacked each other by surprised and many died to carpet bombs and aerial raids. The man found his factory shelled and his friends, dead, and while he seethed with rage, it was not out of revenge that he enlisted to the army, it was out of a need for peace, because the man knew that the world was more than just a mess of violence and death. In the war, the man put everything he had on the line and he fought with a fervor that inspired his brothers-in-arms to do the same. Over the eight years that the man fought, he found in himself a strength and a resolve he never knew he had, but war is never beautiful and the man saw the ugliest sides of humanity, one that no medals or awards could cover up. The Second War was a brutal war that left the world reeling from devastation and the horrors of death, that ended with the detonation of bombs that seared its fiery image into the minds of all. The man watched on the deck of the bomber and knelt on the metal floor at the destruction that was caused at the press of a button. Dreams of people vanished in an instant and in a week, the war was over. In the aftermath, the man visited his old friend of a tree, and laid flowers there, in memory of all the men that died. The tree had blossomed with its beautiful red flowers but to the man, they reminded him too much of the fires and the bombs he saw, that he had to turn and walk away.
    The baby cried and the man stared at the young infant that was his son, the first of four. His wife cradled the baby in her arms and the man touched the forehead of his first-born, and smiled at this new life. The man had come far from his young days of rage and war, and now he owned a corporation that spanned the world with ships and planes. In the connectivity of shipping lanes, the man had found a certain peace in ensuring that the nations of the world got what they needed, for a price. Money talked and the man found a new religion in his wallet and his bank statement, one of capitalism, and he saw that through money, peace could be maintained. The man used all his wealth to ensure that his dream of a world in peace would survive, and he started many companies that would come to be known as non-profit organizations and later, social enterprises. A plan was put into place to ensure that the impoverished of the world and the trampled would be able to rise out from the mire that strangled their dreams and stand on their own two feet, but this was not to be. In the years of his philanthropy, the man found a dark side of corruption and human greed that churned the same rage he felt as a youth. With even more money, the man started a crusade to purge the evils from man’s heart but found himself at an impasse between good and evil, between a choice of morality, for nothing is truly black and white, good and evil when looked at from many perspectives. The man’s crusade crumbled as all crusades do in the end, and the man resigned himself to simply overpowering the corruption with his own tenaciousness, until he realized that he had widened the divides within the community and sparked civil wars.
    The man, now clothed in the black armored suits of business and a cigar in his mouth, stood by the tree on the hill, on the edge of fate and looked out at the world with eyes that had seen all the good and all the bad. With grey hair that seemed to mirror the ashen white bark of his old friend, the man sighed a breath of smoke that lingered in the still air. Silence greeted the two old friends and in the autumn months, the tree used to continue to blossom but that day, all the flowers hung dead on the floor. From his breast pocket, the man pulled out a small black album and stared at the pictures of his family that he kept close to his heart. His sons were all grown up and the woman he loved had the same aged beauty the man had, wrinkles, scars and all. Time is not kind and the man sneered at the thought of spending millions on serums and pills to preserve youth. In age, the man had found a hard-earned wisdom that came at a high price, one that the man was proud to show. On another continent, filled with sand and oil, the man knew that thousands perished at the hands of rebels that wanted to overthrow a tyrant, rebels that the man had funded in the name of peace. The man knew that the corrupted powers of the world only sought a capitalistic gain from war and he wanted to stop that, but he himself then realized that even his help would come back to his own pocket someday. The man stood by his friend of a tree and stared at the bud of a young flower, one that would blossom to become blood red.
    No matter the time or the age, war is constant of human history, and while the man sought to remove it from the cycle of life, it seemed that the weak would always get trampled by the strong. Even the man grew too old to continue his fight against the corrupted powers of the system and was replaced by the younger generation. Only out of respect did the man continue to hold power but even then, the young that grew in a new age of internet connectivity and in a world that seemed to insinuate that the young could get everything they wanted, and the young wanted all the power. The man, now old and forced to walk with a cane, hiked up the hill and in his mind, he prayed to the gods to watch over his children and grand-children. With a grunt, the old man leaned against his old friend of a tree and he heard the bark creak against the strain. The man slowly eased himself down and sat on the edge next to the tree. With a smile, the old man pulled a flask and a cigar from his pocket, both items from his days of youth, and sat them down next to him. He then reached deep into his coat and produced a worn album and opened it, revealing the photos of his family, one that he cherished. Another grunt left the man’s lips as he strained to open the flask and when he finally did, his arm shook as he raised the flask to the sky in a salute.
    “Here we are, my old friend, you who are a beauty in the storm, here we are at the end of the world,” the man laughed.
    The leaves of the tree rustled in the wind and the sound they made seemed joyous, as if laughing along with the man.
    With a sip, the man continued, “You and me, we survived through all the good and the bad, even the worst life has to offer, and here we are, at the end, or at least I am.”
    The bark of the tree creaked in the wind and the man put a hand on his old friend.
    “Don’t you think that perhaps, someone would remember us, that our deeds would be written in the books of history?” the man looked up expectantly at the leaves of the tree that was once lush and filled with flowers, “That would be nice. It really would if there was even one person who would tell our tale.”
    The branches of the tree swayed left and right, jostled by the wind.
    The man held his flask in his lap with both hands and felt the heat of the whiskey hug his throat and lift his spirits, “I’ve done so much. Seen too much, and lost so much more than what I’ve gained. I have done neither good nor bad and if you ask me, Heaven probably won’t open its doors for a fool like me. I thought I could change the world but in the end, no man can achieve that.”
    The tree stood silent, and the air fell still.
    “What have I done with my life? What is there to life that isn’t filled with pain. Even this hill was once a place of happiness but now, it brings back dead memories. I still remember, you know?” the man struggled to stand.
    “The young generation doesn’t know our pain. They don’t know the ways of the old, they don’t respect it but I guess when I was young, I was like that too. Even you, old friend, you are rebel too, always living on the edge. Life and death…”
    A strong wind blew over the hill and the man hugged the tree tightly, his weak knees giving way.
    “We may be old but we won’t go without a fight. We won’t leave this Earth lightly.”
    Another strong wind blew and the man held on tight to his old friend with a determined snarl.
    “Remember me,” the old man shouted to the wind, to the sky and to ocean that stretched to the horizon, “Remember us!”
    Dark clouds above let loose their arrows of rain and the man stood with his old friend, watching the lightning rage above.
    “We will fight to the end. No matter what we’ve lost. Through this pain, we will survive, even in death. I will not leave quietly.”
    Thunder growled and a bolt of lighting crackled in the air above. Wind pummeled the cliff and the rain lashed at the old friends who stood defiantly on the edge.
    “Shall we holler till we stand at the gates of Heaven, my old friend? I think perhaps, that would be a fitting end,” the man screams.
    The waves below crashed against the rocky cliffs and their white wash seemed to grapple at the two old friends above. Rain and wind, heaven and earth, the man stood against all adversity and he had a dreamed a dream, and perhaps, he had made it true, only if he realized that he need not be the only one to fulfill his dream. Thunder and lightning boomed a chorus and the man held the tree in his arms as the edge of the cliff cracked and fell into the ocean. The man dangled from the tree with all the strength he had left and that was when he saw how deep the roots of the tree dug into the cliff side.
    “Oh, you old bastard you,” the man laughed.

The roots strained and the man heard his old friend crack.
    “I’m sorry, old friend,” the man closed his eyes.
    “The Beauty of The Storms” broke in half and the two old friends fell together into the ocean of rage below, disappearing into the white wash of the waves.
    Rain lightened and rays of sunlight streamed in between the dark clouds that simmered down. Luxury cars, metallic silver pulled up next to the man’s vintage, and out from the car, women and men ran out, the children of the man.
    “Father?” they bellowed, but no voice answered back.
    Together they stood, under a grand oak tree, with heavy hearts and stared at the emptiness of the edge of the hill, where they knew his favorite tree had once been.
“Mother?” A child asked, holding on to one of the woman’s hand, “where’s Grandpa?”
    “He’s…well. He’s..” The woman tried to hold back her tears.
    A man held the girl and lifted her up to his shoulders, “Don’t worry honey, he’s in a better place, living his dreams, one that we will never forget.”

    A breeze blew over the hill and the wind picked up flowers of red from the oak tree and all the trees of the hill. The twelve men and women stared at the symphony of red flowers that seemed to rise from all the trees around them, and they smiled at the beauty of all that life leaves behind.

Description

    On a hill, far from the noise of the city and the quiet roads of the coastal towns, there stood a wispy tree of grey bark and fiery flowers that always blossomed throughout the four seasons that assailed the country every year. The tree, which grew precariously on the edge of the hill, overlooked the great blue sea that stretched towards the horizon and its branches reached out towards the colossal white clouds that lived in the sky above, a heaven that it could never touch. This tree, though it lived on the edge, weathered all storms, from animalistic hurricanes to crippling blizzards, and stood triumphant with fresh flowers that seemed to utter the very essence of victory. For all its achievements though, the tree never had a name or at least one that history remembered. It did, however, have a title that a man had given it, a man that history forgot as well.
    “The Beauty of Storms” was the title that the man had christened the tree, and perhaps once, the man had called the tree by a name but that too was forgotten by the man himself as his memories faded. The title, however, never faded from his memory and the man found in the tree, a quiet friend of solitude, and a partner that harbored the same tenaciousness that the man believed himself to embody. The man had big dreams that he couldn’t put into words but he knew that his dreams would impact the world, he just didn’t know how. All that the man knew was that whatever he did, he felt a purpose and a greatness behind his every action. It wasn’t narcissism, or madness, it was to the man, a higher calling, that one day he would achieve something that would leave the world for the better, and every time the man looked at the tree, he felt this calling to be true. His unknown dream seemed impossible, he knew that all was possible because the tree survived through the impossible.
    The man had known the tree since he was a child. It was a time of industrial revolution and the economy was booming with prosperity from technological advances to every industry. It was a time of great hope and peace, and for the man, his childhood was filled with days of joy. The hill, like the tree, had no name but the father of the man had found it when he was lost on the road between towns. The man’s father travelled much but when he was home, the father told the man everything he had seen, learnt, and then he taught the man what the father thought was necessary to survive in life. Every weekend, the man and his parents would have a picnic of warm homemade food under the tree at the hill, and then while the mother lay basking in the light of the warm summer, the father played with his son, the man, and they would joust with wooden swords, crafted by their own hand. There was a golden hue to the light and the sparkles that radiated from smiles made the memories last forever in the man’s mind. He could never forget the fiery flowers that drifted in the wind, beautiful life caught in a strong breeze, and the sound of his mother asking him to step away from the edge, and the man always did, when he was a child.
    The man had hoped to never grow up when he was a child because he had never wanted to lose the happiness he felt during the summer months, but time stops for no man, and the child grew into a young man, who sadly, had to face the harsh realities of life. War touched the world and in its early days, fighting was constrained to neighboring countries but the man’s father had to serve and so, he bade farewell to his family and left for the frontline. The man never heard from his father ever again, and although he didn’t like the possibility, he knew deep in his heart that his father would never come back again. Bullet through heart or shelled by mortar, all the man remembered was the salt taste of his tears and the screams of his mother when two men came to deliver the truth of the father’s end.
    Crippled by loss, the man’s mother fell into depression and later into depravity, when she yearned for the touch of a man but found none similar to her lost love. With no one to console the man when he was young but not old enough to work or to enlist, the man found solace in destructive tendencies and a twisted notion of revenge, that he would avenge his father’s death by fighting in the war as well. The man had in his heart, a deep hatred for all things living because he didn’t know how to express his pain and through trials and tribulations, the man found himself at the edge of the hill, grasping to the bark of the tree and looking down at the vicious waves below with eyes filled with tears. The man’s coat billowed in the wind of the storm and he could not find the strength in himself to jump down into the waters below because he knew there was more to life than just anger and pain. In the rain that seemed to pierce his face and hands with cold needles, the boy clung desperately to the tree of his childhood and stared at its fiery flowers as they were torn into the bellowing winds. For an hour, the man clung to the tree and there, in that moment, they seemed to be as if two friends, unwilling to let the other go for they knew only death awaited them below. The man prayed to all his gods and beliefs, he apologized for all his wrongs and he cried his pain away because he had felt death at its closest. The rain softened and only a light curtain of water caressed the man, whose heart felt cleansed and absolved. With his arms around the tree, the man looked up at the sun that shone between the leaves of the tree and gave the tree the title of “The Beauty of Storms”. That day, the man kneeled on the hill where he used to play and found a clarity of mind that only those who stood on the edge of failure and loss know, for it is a clarity of hope that life can be better.
    The First War rolled over and the man found honest labor in a factory that produced cars, but another war lingered on the horizon. Within a few years, the country was back at war and this time it was more emotional than ever before. Countries had attacked each other by surprised and many died to carpet bombs and aerial raids. The man found his factory shelled and his friends, dead, and while he seethed with rage, it was not out of revenge that he enlisted to the army, it was out of a need for peace, because the man knew that the world was more than just a mess of violence and death. In the war, the man put everything he had on the line and he fought with a fervor that inspired his brothers-in-arms to do the same. Over the eight years that the man fought, he found in himself a strength and a resolve he never knew he had, but war is never beautiful and the man saw the ugliest sides of humanity, one that no medals or awards could cover up. The Second War was a brutal war that left the world reeling from devastation and the horrors of death, that ended with the detonation of bombs that seared its fiery image into the minds of all. The man watched on the deck of the bomber and knelt on the metal floor at the destruction that was caused at the press of a button. Dreams of people vanished in an instant and in a week, the war was over. In the aftermath, the man visited his old friend of a tree, and laid flowers there, in memory of all the men that died. The tree had blossomed with its beautiful red flowers but to the man, they reminded him too much of the fires and the bombs he saw, that he had to turn and walk away.
    The baby cried and the man stared at the young infant that was his son, the first of four. His wife cradled the baby in her arms and the man touched the forehead of his first-born, and smiled at this new life. The man had come far from his young days of rage and war, and now he owned a corporation that spanned the world with ships and planes. In the connectivity of shipping lanes, the man had found a certain peace in ensuring that the nations of the world got what they needed, for a price. Money talked and the man found a new religion in his wallet and his bank statement, one of capitalism, and he saw that through money, peace could be maintained. The man used all his wealth to ensure that his dream of a world in peace would survive, and he started many companies that would come to be known as non-profit organizations and later, social enterprises. A plan was put into place to ensure that the impoverished of the world and the trampled would be able to rise out from the mire that strangled their dreams and stand on their own two feet, but this was not to be. In the years of his philanthropy, the man found a dark side of corruption and human greed that churned the same rage he felt as a youth. With even more money, the man started a crusade to purge the evils from man’s heart but found himself at an impasse between good and evil, between a choice of morality, for nothing is truly black and white, good and evil when looked at from many perspectives. The man’s crusade crumbled as all crusades do in the end, and the man resigned himself to simply overpowering the corruption with his own tenaciousness, until he realized that he had widened the divides within the community and sparked civil wars.
    The man, now clothed in the black armored suits of business and a cigar in his mouth, stood by the tree on the hill, on the edge of fate and looked out at the world with eyes that had seen all the good and all the bad. With grey hair that seemed to mirror the ashen white bark of his old friend, the man sighed a breath of smoke that lingered in the still air. Silence greeted the two old friends and in the autumn months, the tree used to continue to blossom but that day, all the flowers hung dead on the floor. From his breast pocket, the man pulled out a small black album and stared at the pictures of his family that he kept close to his heart. His sons were all grown up and the woman he loved had the same aged beauty the man had, wrinkles, scars and all. Time is not kind and the man sneered at the thought of spending millions on serums and pills to preserve youth. In age, the man had found a hard-earned wisdom that came at a high price, one that the man was proud to show. On another continent, filled with sand and oil, the man knew that thousands perished at the hands of rebels that wanted to overthrow a tyrant, rebels that the man had funded in the name of peace. The man knew that the corrupted powers of the world only sought a capitalistic gain from war and he wanted to stop that, but he himself then realized that even his help would come back to his own pocket someday. The man stood by his friend of a tree and stared at the bud of a young flower, one that would blossom to become blood red.
    No matter the time or the age, war is constant of human history, and while the man sought to remove it from the cycle of life, it seemed that the weak would always get trampled by the strong. Even the man grew too old to continue his fight against the corrupted powers of the system and was replaced by the younger generation. Only out of respect did the man continue to hold power but even then, the young that grew in a new age of internet connectivity and in a world that seemed to insinuate that the young could get everything they wanted, and the young wanted all the power. The man, now old and forced to walk with a cane, hiked up the hill and in his mind, he prayed to the gods to watch over his children and grand-children. With a grunt, the old man leaned against his old friend of a tree and he heard the bark creak against the strain. The man slowly eased himself down and sat on the edge next to the tree. With a smile, the old man pulled a flask and a cigar from his pocket, both items from his days of youth, and sat them down next to him. He then reached deep into his coat and produced a worn album and opened it, revealing the photos of his family, one that he cherished. Another grunt left the man’s lips as he strained to open the flask and when he finally did, his arm shook as he raised the flask to the sky in a salute.
    “Here we are, my old friend, you who are a beauty in the storm, here we are at the end of the world,” the man laughed.
    The leaves of the tree rustled in the wind and the sound they made seemed joyous, as if laughing along with the man.
    With a sip, the man continued, “You and me, we survived through all the good and the bad, even the worst life has to offer, and here we are, at the end, or at least I am.”
    The bark of the tree creaked in the wind and the man put a hand on his old friend.
    “Don’t you think that perhaps, someone would remember us, that our deeds would be written in the books of history?” the man looked up expectantly at the leaves of the tree that was once lush and filled with flowers, “That would be nice. It really would if there was even one person who would tell our tale.”
    The branches of the tree swayed left and right, jostled by the wind.
    The man held his flask in his lap with both hands and felt the heat of the whiskey hug his throat and lift his spirits, “I’ve done so much. Seen too much, and lost so much more than what I’ve gained. I have done neither good nor bad and if you ask me, Heaven probably won’t open its doors for a fool like me. I thought I could change the world but in the end, no man can achieve that.”
    The tree stood silent, and the air fell still.
    “What have I done with my life? What is there to life that isn’t filled with pain. Even this hill was once a place of happiness but now, it brings back dead memories. I still remember, you know?” the man struggled to stand.
    “The young generation doesn’t know our pain. They don’t know the ways of the old, they don’t respect it but I guess when I was young, I was like that too. Even you, old friend, you are rebel too, always living on the edge. Life and death…”
    A strong wind blew over the hill and the man hugged the tree tightly, his weak knees giving way.
    “We may be old but we won’t go without a fight. We won’t leave this Earth lightly.”
    Another strong wind blew and the man held on tight to his old friend with a determined snarl.
    “Remember me,” the old man shouted to the wind, to the sky and to ocean that stretched to the horizon, “Remember us!”
    Dark clouds above let loose their arrows of rain and the man stood with his old friend, watching the lightning rage above.
    “We will fight to the end. No matter what we’ve lost. Through this pain, we will survive, even in death. I will not leave quietly.”
    Thunder growled and a bolt of lighting crackled in the air above. Wind pummeled the cliff and the rain lashed at the old friends who stood defiantly on the edge.
    “Shall we holler till we stand at the gates of Heaven, my old friend? I think perhaps, that would be a fitting end,” the man screams.
    The waves below crashed against the rocky cliffs and their white wash seemed to grapple at the two old friends above. Rain and wind, heaven and earth, the man stood against all adversity and he had a dreamed a dream, and perhaps, he had made it true, only if he realized that he need not be the only one to fulfill his dream. Thunder and lightning boomed a chorus and the man held the tree in his arms as the edge of the cliff cracked and fell into the ocean. The man dangled from the tree with all the strength he had left and that was when he saw how deep the roots of the tree dug into the cliff side.
    “Oh, you old bastard you,” the man laughed.

The roots strained and the man heard his old friend crack.
    “I’m sorry, old friend,” the man closed his eyes.
    “The Beauty of The Storms” broke in half and the two old friends fell together into the ocean of rage below, disappearing into the white wash of the waves.
    Rain lightened and rays of sunlight streamed in between the dark clouds that simmered down. Luxury cars, metallic silver pulled up next to the man’s vintage, and out from the car, women and men ran out, the children of the man.
    “Father?” they bellowed, but no voice answered back.
    Together they stood, under a grand oak tree, with heavy hearts and stared at the emptiness of the edge of the hill, where they knew his favorite tree had once been.
“Mother?” A child asked, holding on to one of the woman’s hand, “where’s Grandpa?”
    “He’s…well. He’s..” The woman tried to hold back her tears.
    A man held the girl and lifted her up to his shoulders, “Don’t worry honey, he’s in a better place, living his dreams, one that we will never forget.”

    A breeze blew over the hill and the wind picked up flowers of red from the oak tree and all the trees of the hill. The twelve men and women stared at the symphony of red flowers that seemed to rise from all the trees around them, and they smiled at the beauty of all that life leaves behind.