Shelby Dotson

Jean

Time had seemed immaterial since Jean passed. After having sorted through a room of her memories, records, and knickknacks I found myself in the garden. I don’t recall the steps I took to get there, nor moving at all, but I remember drinking in the scenery of the garden she had so carefully tended to over the decades. The pale light of dawn glowed purple through petals of the Clematis flowers while glints of reflected light shimmered off of the dew just below the receding fog.