Bouquet of Sorrows

Fiction & Literature, Poetry
Cover of the book Bouquet of Sorrows by Beatriz Cortez, Trafford Publishing
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Author: Beatriz Cortez ISBN: 9781466963399
Publisher: Trafford Publishing Publication: October 31, 2012
Imprint: Trafford Publishing Language: English
Author: Beatriz Cortez
ISBN: 9781466963399
Publisher: Trafford Publishing
Publication: October 31, 2012
Imprint: Trafford Publishing
Language: English

Bouquet of Sorrows The days have been strung to weeks and the weeks to a month like pearls are strung in a necklace. My mind is exhausted, and my body is drained with all that encompasses the dreaded phrase terminally ill attached to a loved one. As I sensitively walk down the hospitals quiet corridor, to my right side, I see a small sign that reads chapel. And I am immediately, as if by an invisible force, drawn toward it. Medicine to my soul, I think to myself. Perfect, at this late hour of the night, it will only be my God and me. I am ready for a heart-to-heart conversation with God, and I sigh in relief. Slowly I open the door to the chapel, and walk in. I am so ready for questions, and answers. Inside the chapel, the light is dim, but I can see a silhouette of a woman knelt in front of a wooden cross. Even though I can only see her back, she seems familiar to me. I feel as if I know her and her story. I stay still not wanting to perturb her praying. Suddenly, I am sure; I know her, her thoughts, her pains, and her sorrows. I know it, because her thoughts, her pains, her sorrows, they are all whispering to me . . .

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Bouquet of Sorrows The days have been strung to weeks and the weeks to a month like pearls are strung in a necklace. My mind is exhausted, and my body is drained with all that encompasses the dreaded phrase terminally ill attached to a loved one. As I sensitively walk down the hospitals quiet corridor, to my right side, I see a small sign that reads chapel. And I am immediately, as if by an invisible force, drawn toward it. Medicine to my soul, I think to myself. Perfect, at this late hour of the night, it will only be my God and me. I am ready for a heart-to-heart conversation with God, and I sigh in relief. Slowly I open the door to the chapel, and walk in. I am so ready for questions, and answers. Inside the chapel, the light is dim, but I can see a silhouette of a woman knelt in front of a wooden cross. Even though I can only see her back, she seems familiar to me. I feel as if I know her and her story. I stay still not wanting to perturb her praying. Suddenly, I am sure; I know her, her thoughts, her pains, and her sorrows. I know it, because her thoughts, her pains, her sorrows, they are all whispering to me . . .

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