Her sad little downtrodden face led a three foot frame toward me in the kitchen. Maddy faced her mother’s blue eyes up to me, surrounded by a mess of blonde angel hair, along with a small fist clutching a dandelion hours beyond code blue. “Papa, the flower I picked for Mumma died. Will you go outside and pick another one I can give to Mumma?” This little child, so full of love, was desperate to share it with her mother in a flower. It was a simple request, and not really unusual from a little girl, but what followed filled my heart.
“Papa, pick one that won’t die.”
“I’ll try, baby. I’ll try.”