He picked wildflowers for me . . .

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It’s the gift that keeps on giving. It’s the thought that comes to mind when something else has been forgotten. And it all dates back to a hot and dusty weekend in our first year of marriage.

We were both working full-time – sometimes weekends – so we could save our pennies and pay off the house.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Dust hung in the air and a storm was brewing. I’d spent the day pottering about the house while my other half was at work.

I heard the ute before I saw it and flicked on the kettle before going out to meet him.

What happened next was unexpected and, perhaps, that’s why it was so memorable.

There he stood with a giant bunch of wildflowers in his arms – hand-picked just for me.

They lasted for a few days but I kept them until a layer of dust weighed them down.

You might think that’s the end of it. But no.

Ever since, if there’s been an anniversary or birthday forgotten, it doesn’t seem to matter quite so much.

After all, he picked wildflowers for me.

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