December is here again, and as the cold breath of winter blackens the flowery petals of spring, I kneel over the garden with a Glasgow smile. The fragile bones and crisp leaves crack as I lay down the bouquet for my dear Annabelle. I know that these delicate roses will soon wither and deteriorate, taking with them such sweet memories. Just a week ago I gave you these flowers, bound tightly with the self-destructive trust we call love. The petals are stained with the paint of a gunshot and almost look alive again. But as is the nature of life, even the most beautiful memories will rot and leave you, dear Annabelle, with nothing more than dead flowers on your grave. I too shed my leaves like the lone tree in a valley, knowing that when the blanket of winter is pulled back, spring will not breath warmth into my heart. So I die here with you, staring up at the blinding winter sky. I can feel my body tingling with the sweet spiders of winter and as my skin grows cold, my heart grows warm, for I know I too wilt with these flowers and will be spared the hollow heart that the spade of time oft digs. When we meet again, I shall kiss your pale blue lips and we will shiver in the fire of our love. I will see you soon, dear Annabelle. -Forrest Gordon