DerOjor

My mother bought them sometime last summer from an old woman with nothing to live for but the garden she grew.And now they sit in a dirty little pot in front of a house in shambles that was once a home to a family even more broken than that cheap crumbling pot, where a few drooping flowers still manage to grow.Persistent little bastards, aren’t they? I still wonder how something can smell so sweet When it’s as good as dead.