She was tired. She could not remember a time when she was not tired. A life full of giving more pasion than she had ever recieved had left her with dark eyes and sunken cheeks. She reached to the cupboards to pull down a glass. Its finish was scratched but cleran, cared for, but knocked down long ago, perhaps, by a pair of rough and careless hands. She poured with last of the tea and the liquid barely filled to half. Raising the glass to her lips, she suddenly clenched the countertop and took a stumbling step forward, then fell, pitching the glass to the ground.
At the funeral home, viewing the long, elegant lines of her mouth, he laid a rose across her hands. It was the first act of returning what she had always so freely given.
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