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Byline: Kennedy Fraser
My mother was born in the spring,
and she died in springtime last year, an old woman. Spring was always her favorite season. She designed her garden to be at its best at that time, and it was at its best when she died in her sleep that fine May morning. She was at home in the old stone cottage in Yorkshire. Outside its windows, lambs were frisking in the fields and the small wild birds were singing their hearts out. The sea looked blue between the trees, in the distance. Scarlet tulips bobbed in drifts against the bright-green lawns and hawthorn hedges. The fruit trees were in flower, and lilac and laburnum, and lots of other ...