The Rose

The Rose was planted here not much longer than I. At first we dined between Cur and Mudgeon down front on the right. I moved away fairly quickly searching for positive mental food at the table. The Rose stayed where she was planted.

After a bit, she suffered a stroke and was gone for a long time. She was not the same Rose when she returned. Conversation had turned to mumbles. Her shoulders stooped; she kept her head bowed.

Last night, while we were sleeping, Rose wilted and died.

AsA/DaD

There is no such thing as arthritis of the tongue.