The Violets of March

by Sarah Jio

My mother always said that when people live alone for the better part of their lives they become immune to their own quirks.

Great love endures time, heartache, and distance. And even when all seems lost, true love lives on. I know that now, and I hope you do, too.

“Love was not a hothouse flower, forced to reluctant bud. Love was a weed that flashed unexpectedly into bloom on the roadside.”