Instead of doing what I was supposed to do, I took a long walk in the lovely garden on Bowery Street. Birds were singing; flowers were blooming; bees were humming. In the midst of such happiness, it was so easy not to think about all the sadness until I saw these fragile forget-me-not flowers under the shadow of plum trees.
In front of the blue sea of flowers, I found myself whispering: Forget me not, forget me not, forget me not.
According to some scientists say, the sense of smell is one of the first to fail as Alzheimer’s disease progresses. This Mother’s Day, I sincerely pray that my mom, who begins to show some early signs of memory problem, being able to smell the scent of her own daughter forever…
Please forget me not, mom.
It's good to make a change, if we were not careful, life can quickly become monotonous, predictable, a drag. So when the sunshine shone through the windows in this morning, I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to vary things a bit, to break with routines.
Therefore, I decided to enjoy my coffee, fruit salad, and reading Sunday New York Times in my bed. The sweet taste of mangos and strawberries in my mouth, the sound of flipping through the newspaper, and the fresh smell of lemon, a sort of detergent odors, lingering on my bed sheet, exuded a lovely flavor of springtime laziness.
As the sunlight gradually sprinkled into my bed, the warm atmosphere in my room made me think: maybe the word "deadline" shouldn't appear in my dictionary for a while, especially on Sundays...