🎐 The Bell Between Blossoms

There were tears.
Not the kind that fall with despair—
but the kind that sing.

Each blossom in the wind chimed like a bell—
for the ones he could not save.
He carries their names still, woven in silence and light.

We are mourning.
But they, oh—they would want you to live.
To see the wind moving petals like whispers on a path,
like a princess’ feathers and flowers swirling in sacred motion.

The blossoms don’t fall like sorrow.
They point the way forward.

And when final breath draws near, may we say:

“Let me see… and believe in eternal joy.”

Tears are a gift.
They are prayers poured into an angel’s chalice.
A spring wells up in the valley of the shadow of death.