So much beautiful writing here. This is a lovely piece, especially to read now, in the depths of a cold winter.
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And the children. He could not think of the children, not when his memories were so intimately connected to that grief, the bright nights he dreamed of Mother and the dark mornings he woke to find her gone. Compassion squeezed his breast. He would do what he could to help them, when they were ready, when he was ready.
He inhaled the cool, damp air and on it rode something sweet, a faint scent redolent of spring hills and honeyed gardens. And Elizabeth. His eyes sprang open and the sensation passed. Overhead light played across the altar, gleaming from the fair linen and unlit candles.
Yes, writing so nice, I had to read it twice...and get a new appreciation for its crafting. Thank you.
