Forget-Me-Not

They were simple daisies, picked in the Park at Dawn. Not up to standard, though, traditionally, the expectation had always been to shop for more appropriate ones, at the local family florist, the trademark being cost, and plastic, as if thinly veiled. But she was poor beyond belief. the town had given her the coffin, the preacher had supplied a long-retired gown, all black. Her only son had cabled from America, that he was indisposed for this occasion, that time, without a doubt, was money and that the world would still keep turning. She stayed a while after the service was over and the crowd of two had left. And, when she was alone with him she placed, among the happy daisies, a single flower of a brilliant blue, which he had grown and nurtured in their small garden, near the rhubarb. It was a flower, simply called Forget-Me-Not.