A sudden breath of wind causes a gentle shower of delicate pink blossoms to fall on the two women seated by the wrought iron table. Instinctively, the older of the two pulls her powder blue cardigan closer to her chest with frail hands, the mottled translucent skin stretched tight over stiffened bones. The other absentmindedly caresses a single bloom between her restless fingers.
So beautifully fragile. So perfectly formed.
A world of possibilities encapsulated in a falling flower.
A pale pink promise of new life floating down from a clear blue sky.