To others it is just an old-fashioned garden, along the bus route, but to me it is a nostalgic symbol. Every time I pass, memories of another garden filter into consciousness. A garden bordered with iris plumes of varied hues and perfumed with art elusive fragrance appears. An old lady is bent over a bloom of exceptionally delicate shade. She straightens slowly saying, "Lovely, isn't it, John?" Her hands are gnarled and dirty, her dress black and shapeless, but her smile makes you overlook all else.
Manuscripts: Vol. 14
, Article 22.
Retrieved from: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol14/iss2/22